Mountchance's house, as already mentioned, was really an adjunct of St. Thomas's chapel, so far at least as the foundation was concerned. This foundation had once formed the lower chapel or crypt and was then the only distinctive relic of the bridge built by Peter of Colechurch, in the thirteenth century. Rofflash descended the uneven loose bricks of the narrow winding staircase into the dungeon-like apartment. The stone floor was not much above the level of the river at high tide and a lancet window on each side of the bridge admitted a glimmer of light in the day time. It was now pitch dark. Rofflash groped his way over the slimy floor to a small door which he knew opened on to an abutment between two arches. He only did this by feeling the wall as he went. He hoped when outside to hail a passing wherry. At any rate it was unlikely his hiding place would be discovered by any of the mob. In the meantime the shop and room above were filled with a rabble more than half of which was out for plunder. Mountchance was lying on the floor unconscious, but no one bothered about him. In the opinion of some it was perhaps as well, as he would be unable to prevent them doing as they liked. This opinion was not held by Sally Salisbury. She was convinced Rofflash was in the house though she had not seen him actually enter. It angered her to think that Mountchance who could have told her anything was as good as dead. She called upon the crowd to search for the murderer but they turned a deaf ear to her entreaties. They were much more interested in looting the place; and finding the iron bound coffer and hearing the chink of coin within, they attacked it savagely and succeeded in smashing the lock. The sight of gold was too much for them. They scrambled, they fought, they trampled upon each other. The yellow metal acted upon them like strong drink. In the midst of the pandemonium came a deafening explosion, a vivid flash of red, a volume of acrid suffocating vapour. Another explosion and men came rushing from Mountchance's laboratory--terror written in their faces. Helter-skelter the crowd darted from the house forcing Sally Salisbury with them whether she would or not. In the mad fight for gold large glass bottles filled with acids, alcohol and other inflammable liquids had been upset and smashed, and the smouldering fire in the furnace did the rest. What with the bundles of dried herbs which burnt like so much tinder and the woodwork, the panelled walls and furniture, nothing could save the house.