“We proceed with me in front and you behind. I have the revolver, you have the electric torch. You hold it at arm’s length, just in front of my shoulder. That ought to puzzle the other man if it comes to shooting. Conversation will be conducted in a low tone of voice. If we find nobody there, we emerge at the billiard-room end, and tell Carmichael he’s a fool.” “Good. I’m not really certain, when all’s said and done, that I really want to meet this man. Curiosity has its limits, I find.” “Well, are you ready? Flash the light into the passage as soon as I open the door. Then let me go in first, and follow up close.” The passage was startlingly high, having the whole height of the outer room. It was so narrow that you instinctively edged sideways along it, though there was just room to walk breast-forward and avoid contact with the cobweb-matted walls. It began to descend almost immediately, by a series of wooden steps; and by a rough calculation Gordon made out that they were below the level of Reeves’ floor by the time they had reached the parallel of Reeves’ inner wall. At this point they had to stoop, a circumstance which rather confused their plan of campaign; and it was clear that this part of the hiding-place was substracted, not from the thickness of the walls but from the depth of the floor. There was a sharp turn to the right, which showed that they were now following the course of the passage which led past Reeves’ room. The dust on the floor of the passage was thick and fine, easily showing the traces of confused, but recent, human footprints. Quite suddenly the passage opened out to the left, and at the same time a very meagre ray of light from outside attracted their attention. They found a chamber some seven feet square, with a tiny squint to let in the light, from some unnoticeable chink in the brickwork of the outer wall. The height of this chamber was still such that a full-grown man could not stand up without stooping, but the presence of light and air made it contrast agreeably with the passage outside. Some attempt, too, had been made to sweep the floor, the dust being all brushed up into a pile at one corner. There could be no doubt that this chamber had been the refuge of hunted priests three centuries back; no doubt, either, that it had been the refuge of a hunted man within the last few days past. Of the former occupation, indeed, there were few signs. A scratch had been made now and again in the plaster of the walls, giving a name in initials—a tourist’s trick, but rescued from vulgarity by the circumstances of its origin, and by the addition of a few Christian symbols—a Cross several times, and once the IHS monogram. Just where the light of the little window fell strongest, a few lines of pious doggerel had been scrawled, difficult to read in their crabbed seventeenth-century handwriting. A sconce for a candle, nailed into the wall, was the only solid monument left of these distant memories.