This was merely a storage chamber. There was no connection with an ice-chamber, and there were none of the hooks and shelves which would make it complete for its purpose. The only appliance was the thermometer, the coils of which were fitted in flush with the tiling, near the door, and protected by a close metal grating. As for the door itself, its outline was a fine seam. There was a handle. As the match burned close to his fingers, Orme pulled out his watch. It was twenty-nine minutes past five. Darkness again. Orme groped his way to the door and tugged at the handle. The door would not open; built with air-tight nicety, it did not budge in the least. This was as Orme had expected. He knew that Alcatrante would have shot the bolt. He knew, too, that Alcatrante would be waiting in the corridor, to assure himself that the last clerk left the office without freeing the prisoner--that all the lights were out and the office locked for the night. Then he would depart, exulting that the papers could not be delivered; and in the morning Orme would be released. But had Alcatrante realized that the chamber was air-tight? Surely he had not known that the girl was already there. The air that might barely suffice to keep one alive until relief came would not suffice for two. There was not the least opening to admit of ventilation. Even the places where, in a practical refrigerator, connection would be made with the ice-chamber, were blocked up; for that matter, they were on that side of the chamber which was built close into the corner of the office. Orme drove his heel against the wall. The tiles did not break. Then he stepped back toward the middle of the chamber. "Where are you, Girl?" he asked. "Here," she answered, very near him. He reached out and found her hand, and she did not withdraw it from his clasp. "The rascal has locked us in," he said. "I'm afraid we shall have a long wait." "Will it do any good to shout?" "No one could hear us through these walls. No, there's nothing to do but remain quiet. But you needn't stand, Girl." He led her to the wall. Removing his coat, he folded it and placed it on the floor for a cushion, and she seated herself upon it. He remained standing near by. "The papers," he said, "are in that coat you are sitting on." He laughed, with a consciousness of the grim and terrible humor of their situation--which he hoped she had not yet realized. Here they were, the hard-sought papers in their possession, yet they were helpless even to save their own lives. "I wish you _would_ shout," she said. "Very well," he said, and going over to the door, he called out several times with the full power of his lungs. The sound, pent in that narrow room, fairly crashed in their ears, but there was no answer from without. "Don't do it again," she said at last. Then she sighed. "Oh, the irony of it!" she exclaimed. "I know." He laughed. "But don't give up, Girl. We'll deliver those papers yet."