He was about to retrace his steps to a point where he was sure of the landmarks when, far away, he heard the faint drip, drip, drip of water falling on rock. At first, standing there in black silence save for the intermittent tinkling, he could not tell where the sound came from. By walking a few feet down each passage, however, he eliminated first the left passage and then the right, and so went straight ahead down a gentle incline with roof so high that a match flame failed to reveal it, and so narrow that his shoulders brushed the walls on either side as he walked. He judged it to be a natural fissure running through the hill, an old watercourse; the ridge seemed honeycombed with them. That particular match having burned itself out, Abington walked on in darkness, frankly relieved at the near prospect of water. He was willing now to admit to himself that he was very thirsty, and that the hunger gnawing at his stomach could be easier borne if he had a drink. It would be a relief, too, to have a decent light once more and he promised himself grimly that this time he would not loiter along, studying hieroglyphics as he went. They could wait until he came in again prepared to explore the place thoroughly and chalk the different turnings so there could be no blundering in the future. So, thinking of future precautions, he stepped out over the lip of a small precipice and fell headlong into water. He came up spluttering sentences which might have surprised Bill, who had found him always controlled in his speech. Abington fumbled for the edge of the pool, found it and hung on with one hand while he explored with the other for room to lift himself out on the rock. Grimly he clung to the lamp, which was doubly vital to him now, and when he had made shift to crawl out he turned and sat with his legs dangling in water to his knees while he prepared to fill his lamp. “Well, I wanted water,” he said with a chuckle, when his first startled rage had passed and he was smoothing the water out of his wet beard. “Sooner or later we do get what we want, I’ve noticed, even though the manner of getting is often unexpected.” With the lamp cap opened, he leaned and dipped the lamp in the water, feeling for the depth. * * * * * Abington’s nerves were scarcely more susceptible to emotion than wires, but the Stygian blackness and the silence broken only by that tinkling drip, drip, drip, began to press rather heavily upon his consciousness. In spite of himself his fingers shook and fumbled the simple mechanism which provided for lighting the lamp with a spark when matches were not available--as his emphatically were not, after their involuntary bath.