It was in that end of the oblong cell directly opposite the door that I came upon a section of the wall which seemed to give back a hint of hollowness to judicious thumpings with the stool. This set me to examining that part of the brickwork with greater care. In this area the bricks were newer, and by passing the candle back and forth I found the reason for the fresher brickwork. A low doorway in the original wall had been filled up and its outlines were plainly traceable. On my knees before this bricked-up door I sought to recall all I had ever heard of the earlier fortalice--the old Fort Amsterdam of the Dutch. Somewhere, in some Dutch settler’s house on the upper Hudson, I had once seen a sketch plan of Fort Amsterdam; in that plan there were outworks shown beyond the walls, though they were not so extensive as those constructed later by the British rebuilders. Had the Dutchmen used this tunnel passage to supply their outer works with ammunition? It seemed altogether logical and reasonable to assume that they had. Having reasoned thus far, the next step was clearly obvious. Beyond the bricked-up door there would be a passage leading to what was now the southeastern ravelin. True, the passage might have been filled up when the doorway was stopped; but the hollow sound given back by the newer wall encouraged the more hopeful conclusion. Taking the existence of the passage for granted, the next thing in order was--or should have been--a tool to dig with. But a cat with clipped claws could scarcely have been more helpless in this respect than I was. The most painstaking search of the littered floor revealed nothing in the way of a bit of metal that would scratch the mortar of the joints in the later masonry, much less a practicable digging tool. I was sitting on the edge of the bunk-bed with my chin in my hand and fairly at the end of any fruitful invention, when there came muffled sounds beyond the door to warn me of an approaching intrusion. Presently the key squeaked in the rusty lock and the door swung open to admit a visitor. By the light of the one poor guttering candle on the table I did not make him out at first, though I supposed, of course, it would be Castner. But when I looked again I found myself staring in astonishment into the gloomy eyes of Benedict Arnold. I knew what he had come for, or thought I did; and once more I strung myself up to the task of deceiving him yet further--for John Champe’s sake. “So,” he said, and his voice was so low that it was almost gentle; “the long road of equivocation has found its fatal turn at the last, has it, Captain Page?” I thought he had come to gloat over me, as would have been most natural, but never was a prefiguring worse mistaken. Coming closer until I could almost feel the auger-boring of the moody eyes, he went on in the same low monotone.