Encouraged by the scintillation of hope that thus gleamed in upon him, Rainford hurried back to the other end of the subterranean—ascended the spiral staircase—grasped his pistols—and listened attentively. All was still in the room above:—not the murmur of a voice—nor the creaking of a footstep! He then slowly and carefully drew back the bolt of the trap-door, and tried to raise it. But it moved not! He applied additional force, under the impression that some heavy piece of furniture might have been dragged over the trap: but still it was as motionless as the thick, solid, substantial flooring in which it was set. Rainford returned the pistols to his pockets, so that nothing might impede the application of all his strength to the task on which his liberty depended: but no—the door moved not! The highwayman bit his under lip almost till the blood started forth—for he felt that his calmness was abandoning him. Then how bitterly did he repent the course which he had adopted after his interruption in the laboratory by the appearance of Doctor Lascelles. Instead of trusting himself to that hideous subterranean, he should have essayed an escape by means of the front rooms of the house. Regrets were, however, useless:—he must act—and not waste time in self-reproach! Yes: he must act—if he would not die in that dreadful place, where the vindictiveness of Old Death would be sure to leave him! To act!—oh! how easy to think of acting!—But how _was_ he to put his thought into execution? A stone pavement beneath—stone walls on either side—a stone ceiling overhead—at one end an avenue closed by a huge clock—at the other a trap-door evidently secured on the outside,—these were the obstacles—these were the barriers against which he had to contend. And what were the implements within his power? His two hands—a clasp-knife—and a pair of pistols! Quick as lightning the idea flashed across him that the iron ladder at the other extremity of the subterranean was moveable, and that it would serve him as a battering-ram. Rejoiced at this thought, he once more retraced his way along the vaulted passage, and eagerly grasped the ladder. His conjecture was right: it merely hooked on to two iron rings fixed into the masonry just below the aperture covered by the clock; and, heavy though it was, yet Rainford now bore it as easily as if it were of wood—for renewed hope had rendered him strong and bold as a lion. It was, however, somewhat difficult to drag the iron ladder up the spiral staircase; but in a few minutes this portion of the task was accomplished; and Rainford now prepared to assault the secret entrance to Old Death's dwelling. Placing himself in such a position that he might deal a vigorous blow upwards with his ponderous engine, and then be able to seize his pistols the instant they might be required, he went to work with a stout arm and a still stouter heart.