The stairs were steep, but not many. On reaching the topmost, Lucius found himself, not in a room as he had expected, but in a passage so narrow that his coatsleeves brushed against the wall on either side. This passage was perfectly dark, and had a damp mouldy odour. It was low, for he could touch the roughly-plastered ceiling with his hand. He went on, treading cautiously, lest he should come to a gap in the rotten flooring, which might precipitate him incontinently to the lowest depth of some dark cellar. The passage was long; he stumbled presently against a step, mounted three or four stairs, and went on some few yards farther on the higher level, and then found himself at the foot of another staircase, which, unlike the one below, wound upwards in spiral fashion, and demanded extreme caution from the stranger who trod its precipitous steps. This Lucius mounted slowly, feeling his way. After the first step or two he saw a faint glimmer of light, which seemed to creep in at some chink above. This got stronger as he ascended, and presently he perceived that it came from a crack in a panelled wall. Another step brought him to a small chamber, not much larger than a roomy closet. He felt the wall that faced him, and discovered bolts, which seemed to fasten a door, or it might be a sliding panel in the wall. Scarcely had he done this when he was startled by a sound which was very familiar to him—Mr. Sivewright’s sharp short cough. He drew back amazed. This secret staircase—or if not exactly a secret staircase, at least one which nobody had taken the trouble to explore—had led him directly to Mr. Sivewright’s room. He waited for a few minutes, heard the old man sigh as he turned wearily in his bed, heard the crackle of a newspaper presently as he turned the leaf, and convinced himself of the fact that this closet communicated with Homer Sivewright’s room. Whether its existence were known to Mr. Sivewright or not was a question which he must settle for himself as best he might. He went back as noiselessly as he had come, and found Jacob Wincher waiting in the brewhouse, patiently seated upon a three-legged stool. ‘Well, sir, you didn’t find much, I suppose, to compensate for having made such a figure of your coat with plaster and cobwebs—only rubbish and such-like, I suppose?’ ‘My good Mr. Wincher, I found positively nothing,’ answered Lucius. ‘But I extended my knowledge of the topography of this queer old house, and in doing that recompensed myself for my trouble. Yes,’ he added, glancing disconsolately at his coat, ‘the whitewash has not improved my appearance; and the cost of a coat is still a matter of importance to me. Now for the cellars. You are sure all means of exit are cut off?’ ‘Quite sure, sir.’ ‘Then we may find our thief snugly stowed away underground perhaps, with the booty upon him. Come along.’