“Ah, it runs into Wood’s cellar, does it?” says I. “And how on earth are we to get out o’ that, I wonder, even if we get through the passage? You were never through it yourself, eh, Gregory?” “No,” says he, prompt enough. “I never went along more than a dozen yards on’t, and wouldn’t now if t’were not for the fix we’re in,” he says, shaking his head. “And why not?” says I. “There were queer tales about it,” he says, looking elsewhere than at me. I stood and stared at him for a full minute, during which he affected not to know that my eyes were on him. “Look here, Gregory,” says I, at last. “I’m going along this passage. Faith, queer tales or no, there can’t be more that’s horrible in it than there is in that cellar o’ yours. So give me the lanthorn,” I says, “and wait me there.” “I’m going with thee, lad,” says he, holding the lanthorn away from me. I reflected for a while. “Very well,” I says. “But I’ll lead the way--and here goes,” and I took the light out of his hand and advanced along the passage. “It’s a low roof for a big man,” I says. “Keep your head down, Gregory.” The first twenty yards of the passage yielded naught in the way of adventure. The sand and dust was a foot thick on the floor, and there were great cobwebs stretched from side to side along which the spiders, big as a penny-piece, scattered and hurried as the light drew near. But there were no obstacles to surmount nor pitfalls to tumble into, and though the air was thick and musty it was possible to breathe with some slight discomfort. “If it’s all like this,” says I, “we shall do, though it’s poor work walking with your body bent double.” “Why,” says Gregory, “we can crawl on hands and knees if need be. Master Dick--we must needs expect----” But there he stopped, for I had started back and thrown out a hand behind me to keep him off. “God in Heaven!” says I, “Look there, Gregory--there--there!” As I swung the lanthorn to the floor he poked his head over my shoulder and we stared together at the thing that lay in the dust a yard from our feet. It was the skeleton of a man that had fallen forward on his face, and now lay with outstretched arms and bony fingers that clutched the yielding sand. There were bits of ragged linen here and there, and between his arms, but rolled a little way out of their reach, lay a coffer, or box, the lid of which had burst open and revealed a quantity of jewels that sparkled dully in the light of the lanthorn. As for the bones they shone as white as if they had been bleached, and I shuddered to think of the rats in the cellar behind us whose forefathers had no doubt picked them clean.