“Impossible—I can’t believe it; it is all a blind. I must go to Belthrop; I must see Broughton. Good God, how weak I am!” He fell exhausted back into his chair. “How foolish of you!” said Fulk, gently. “But I can understand it. Now, I will tell you how I learnt all this. It was very simple. When I found that there was no escape through your room, I tried the other wall. I removed the clock from the bracket, and bored a small hole. Frequently I had to stop, because I heard voices. I found the next room to mine was one of Theodore’s own private apartments: it is the sitting-room, in fact. Beyond it is his laboratory. I should like to know what is in that laboratory: if we escape, I _will_ know. He and Marese used to meet here and converse. I heard them; I listened. I tell you I heard things that would make your flesh creep. Are you better?” “Yes; oh, that I was stronger! There is wine on the table. Do you think I might drink it safely?” “Certainly not; but you had better pretend that you have. Pour some behind the grate; get rid of it somehow, or they will put the poison in your food. Well, I heard things about a certain ship, the _Lucca_.” “The _Lucca_—she was found a derelict.” “Yes, I know; I could tell you how she became a derelict. But Odo. Well, I heard them discuss that plan. He was to be instructed, and then allowed to escape. He did escape. I only wish I was strong, and could climb like him. What he did, you know. If he is still at large, I will wager a hundred pounds I find him. I know his old haunts. But I could not understand the object of—of—I see now. Waldron was the descendant of Arthur Sibbold. Are you superstitious? No. Well, I am—a little. In this case, now, does it not seem as if the blood of old Will Baskette, shot at the cider barrel, had revenged itself from generation to generation? Stirmingham was, as it were, founded with blood. Your poor friend Jason was a descendant of the murderer Sibbold, who shot the thief; and here is a Baskette continuing the vendetta.” “For God’s sake, tell me how to escape.” “I will. But is it not Fate? Look at the chain of events—‘circumstances’ they are called now: the ancients called them Fate, Sophocles called them Necessity. But you are eager about escaping. Hush—they are coming!” The picture dropped; Aymer looked down at his book. Davidson entered, and asked him how he felt. He replied better, and asked if Miss Waldron was in the asylum? Davidson smiled. “Still on that, sir? I tell you honestly that no such person is here.” He looked Aymer in the face, and Aymer believed him. Davidson lit the gas, left several newspapers and books, and retired. So soon as his steps had died away, the picture was lifted again. “I told you so,” said Aymer; “she is not here. He evidently spoke the truth.”