As he spoke, he crossed the room to examine the door on the opposite side. “Same staunch build,” he remarked judicially. “We couldn’t be caged better, outside a prison. I’m rather lighter than you, Jim,” he went on, “let me get up on your shoulders and try this small roof window.” He climbed up, and in a minute or two came down again. “Padlocked with an iron bar and staple from the outside,” he said briefly. “There’s just one thing left. To dig our way out with our knives through that solid oak door. I don’t know, of course, whether we can do it or not, but I think it’s the only alternative.” “That’s one way, but not the only one,” I said. “One thing we can do first, put a signal out for Dorothy.” “How can you signal Dorothy?” asked Tom. “Break a hole in one of those glass bull’s-eyes up there,” I answered, “and put a rung of the broken stool up through, with my handkerchief tied on it.” “Good work,” said Tom. “Just the ticket.” In two minutes our flag of distress was waving on the roof. “Now for the door,” I cried, and we both set to work on the hard oak about the lock. British oak is proverbially tough, but that oak was the toughest that ever came out of Britain’s primeval forests, I verily believe. When we had worked on it for what seemed an endless time, we had but a slight furrow on either side of the lock, and two broken blades to show for our labors. Still we kept doggedly on, chiseling and cutting, little by little, till some impression really began to be made. At length Tom straightened up painfully. “That’s backbreaking work, all right,” he remarked, with a groan. “I never knew how much I sympathized with escaping prisoners till now.” As we leaned against the wall, I heard a slight movement outside. “Hush,” I muttered, “there’s a sound.” The noise grew louder. It was a key turning in the inside door. Then not one, but three or four persons, came hurriedly across the floor towards the door by which we had entered. Tom seized the whole stool and poised it ready to rush out, while I gripped a rung of the broken one. The bolt shot back, the key turned, the door swung open, and there in the rectangle stood Dorothy, Hamerly, the assistant who had imprisoned us and an unknown elderly man. In a moment Dorothy was in Tom’s arms, but her hand groped for mine as she clung to him. She sobbed only for a moment, recovering herself almost as swiftly as she had broken down. “Good work, old girl,” said Tom, patting her. “I don’t think, frankly, that I was ever so glad to see you in all my life.” As Dorothy, still with a slightly tremulous smile, turned towards me, Tom gave his hand to Hamerly. “How in blazes did Dorothy do this trick, anyway?” he asked.