‘Nonsense,’ said Racksole brusquely; ‘how can they know?’ And, taking hold of the knob, he violently shook the door, and it opened. ‘I told you it wasn’t locked,’ he added, and this small success of opening the door seemed to steady the man. It was a curious psychological effect, this terrorizing (for it amounted to that) of two courageous full-grown men by the mere apparition of a helpless creature in a cellar. Gradually they both recovered from it. The next moment they were out in the passage which led to the front door of the house. The front door stood open. They looked into the street, up and down, but there was not a soul in sight. The street, lighted by three gas-lamps only, seemed strangely sinister and mysterious. ‘She has gone, that’s clear,’ said Racksole, meaning the woman with the red hat. ‘And Miss Spencer after her, do you think?’ questioned Aribert. ‘No. She would stay. She would never dare to leave. Let us find the cellar steps.’ The cellar steps were happily not difficult to discover, for in moving a pace backwards Prince Aribert had a narrow escape of precipitating himself to the bottom of them. The lantern showed that they were built on a curve. Silently Racksole resumed possession of the lantern and went first, the Prince close behind him. At the foot was a short passage, and in this passage crouched the figure of a woman. Her eyes threw back the rays of the lantern, shining like a cat’s at midnight. Then, as the men went nearer, they saw that it was Miss Spencer who barred their way. She seemed half to kneel on the stone floor, and in one hand she held what at first appeared to be a dagger, but which proved to be nothing more romantic than a rather long bread-knife. ‘I heard you, I heard you,’ she exclaimed. ‘Get back; you mustn’t come here.’ There was a desperate and dangerous look on her face, and her form shook with scarcely controlled passionate energy. ‘Now see here, Miss Spencer,’ Racksole said calmly, ‘I guess we’ve had enough of this fandango. You’d better get up and clear out, or we’ll just have to drag you off.’ He went calmly up to her, the lantern in his hand. Without another word she struck the knife into his arm, and the lantern fell extinguished. Racksole gave a cry, rather of angry surprise than of pain, and retreated a few steps. In the darkness they could still perceive the glint of her eyes. ‘I told you you mustn’t come here,’ the woman said. ‘Now get back.’ Racksole positively laughed. It was a queer laugh, but he laughed, and he could not help it. The idea of this woman, this bureau clerk, stopping his progress and that of Prince Aribert by means of a bread- knife aroused his sense of humour. He struck a match, relighted the candle, and faced Miss Spencer once more. ‘I’ll do it again,’ she said, with a note of hard resolve. ‘Oh, no, you won’t, my girl,’ said Racksole; and he pulled out his revolver, cocked it, raised his hand. ‘Put down that plaything of yours,’ he said firmly.