Then, ascending as quickly as my shattered nerves and swimming head would allow, I found above me a closed grating, through which I could hear the roar of the London traffic above. I shouted, but could attract no attention. To push up the iron was impossible, for I saw that it was locked. A woman passed close by, and I shouted to her. She turned and looked in an opposite direction, surprised to see no one. She never suspected anyone being beneath the roadway. An omnibus rumbled over me, and I saw that it was a green "Bayswater," from which I concluded that I must be beneath Oxford Street. Again and again I shouted for help, but could attract no notice. My position was far from secure, compelled to cling on to those iron footholds in the brickwork. At last I saw a newsboy close to me. My shout startled him, but when he discerned my face beneath the bars he came closer, and asked,-- "'Alloa, guv'nor! What's up?" "I'm a prisoner here," I explained. "Go and fetch a policeman." "My gum!" exclaimed the urchin in his surprise. "It's the first time I've ever 'eard of a bloke gettin' locked down the sewer." And he went off at once to call a constable. The officer came quickly, and after a brief explanation he sent the lad somewhere to the house of one of the sewermen, I think, for the key. Meanwhile, a small crowd quickly collected around the grating, and I was subjected to a good deal of good-humoured banter until the man came with the key, and I once again found myself at the surface, a dirty, dishevelled, pitiable-looking object in evening dress. I was in Oxford Street, at the corner of Hart Street, Bloomsbury. Both constable and sewer-man were curious to know how I got in, whereupon I explained that I had been the victim of a plot in some house, of the exact situation of which I was unaware. The two men exchanged glances--meaning glances I saw them to be. "Was it anywhere near Portland Place?" asked the big fellow in blue jersey and sea-boots. "I don't know. I saw Poland Street written up. Why?" "Well, because there's something mysterious goes on in a house somewhere near here. Only a month ago we found the body of a young woman drowned in the main sewer at the corner of Charing Cross Road, and the affair is a mystery. The police 'ave kept it out of the papers while they make inquiries. We're trying to find out what house has direct communication with the sewer, but up to the present we've not been successful. It's a good job," he added, "that you weren't caught by the flush, for it must just be going down at this time." I explained how narrowly I had escaped death, and then in reply to the constable described the dastardly plot of which I had been the victim.