"Go up!" commanded the agitated musician, addressing Trotter. "It is an air-chamber. Don't break your head on the rafters. Follow close behind, Lady Jane. I will hold the ladder. Close the trap after you,--and do not make a sound after you are once up there. This is the jolliest moment of my life! I was never so thrilled. It is beautiful! It is ravishing! Sh! Don't utter a word, I command you! We will foil him,--we will foil old Scotland Yard. Be quick! Splendid! You are wonderful, Mademoiselle. Such courage,--such grace,--such--Sh! I take the ladder away! Ha, he will never suspect. He--" "But how the deuce are we to get down from here?" groaned Trotter in a penetrating whisper from aloft. "You can't get down,--but as he can't get up, why bother your head about that? Close the trap!" "Oh-h!" shuddered Jane, in an ecstasy of excitement. She was kneeling behind her companion, peering down through the square little opening into which he had drawn her a moment before. Trotter cautiously lowered the trap-door,--and they were in Stygian darkness. She repeated the exclamation, but this time it was a sharp, quick gasp of dismay. For a long time they were silent, listening for sounds from below. At last he arose to his feet. His head came in contact with something solid. A smothered groan escaped his lips. "Good Lord!-- Be careful, dear! There's not more than four feet head-room. Sit still till I find a match." "Are you hurt? What a dreadful bump it was. I wonder if he could have heard?" "They heard it in heaven," he replied, feeling his head. "How dark it is," she shuddered. "Don't you dare move an inch from my side, Eric. I'll scream." He laughed softly. "By Jove, it's rather a jolly lark, after all. A wonderful place this is for sweethearts." He dropped down beside her. After a time, she whispered: "You mentioned a match, Eric." "So I did," said he, and proceeded to go through the pocket in which he was accustomed to carry matches. "Thunderation! The box is empty." She was silent for a moment. "I really don't mind, dear." "I remember saying this morning that I never have any luck on Friday," said he resignedly. "But," he added, a happy note in his voice, "I never dreamed there was such luck as this in store for me." CHAPTER XVIII FRIDAY FOR BAD LUCK SPEAKING of Friday and the mystery of luck. Luck is supposed to shift in one direction or another on the sixth day of every week in the year. It is supposed to shift for everybody. A great many people are either too ignorant or too supercilious to acknowledge this vast and oppressive truth, however. They regard Friday as a plain, ordinary day, and go on being fatuously optimistic.