Then, on hands and knees, we crawled against the pommeling wind to the very edge of the cliff, and lying on our stomachs peered straight down upon the site of the Shakespeare Cliff tunnel. I still had traces of the headache I had picked up while creeping around in the depths of the Abbots Cliff tunnel and it was a dizzying change for me now to peer three hundred feet down a sheer cliff face, but it was worth it, even though there was nothing so startling to see. Far below us lay a plateau with a couple of railway sidings on it. There were no buildings about, and certainly nothing that resembled any trace of a mine entrance. "British Railways had to build a sea wall around the whole Shakespeare Cliff area a few years ago because of the erosion from the Channel, and when we were doing that we cleaned out all the old mine workings," Adams said. "One of the last buildings to go was a shed that the old custodian of the works used to live in. His name was Charlie Gatehouse. He died about ten years ago at the age of ninety. He had worked as a timberman on both the Abbots Cliff and Shakespeare Cliff tunnels, and he took up the first sod when they dug the shaft down here. He used to tell about how one day Mr. Gladstone came down into the tunnel." Then Adams pointed out to me exactly where the entrance to Number Two shaft had been. It lay by the third rain puddle to the left near one of the sidings. I enjoyed the thought of having its location fixed in my mind, and I believe Mr. Adams did, too. We gazed down silently. "Just imagine, if the Board of Trade hadn't stopped the works, a man might have been able to go right on to Vladivostock without getting out of his train," Adams said after a while. And he added earnestly, "But I think they'll build the tunnel yet."