Chapter Three

The Secret Chamber

 

It is my firm and unalterable conviction that Izaak Walton was an impostor. I am thinking, at the moment, of his observations on the Fordidge trout, a mythical fish, “near the bigness of a salmon”, which is said to inhabit the River Stour in Kent. Very ingenious and abstruse are old Izaak’s explanations of the suspicious fact that none of these leviathans of the deep have ever been “caught with an angle”; but I can give a much simpler one. There is no such fish. That was the conclusion that I reached after a couple of evening’s angling from the boat belonging to the Royal George Inn, where I was now lodging; having had but a single bite all the time, and even then only hauled up a fat-headed gudgeon who grinned in my face and then dropped off the hook and swam away. Fordidge trout, indeed! “I don’t believe there’s no sech a person” – to borrow Mrs Gamp’s immortal phrase.

Not that it really mattered to me. If it had, I suppose I should not have baited my hook with three-quarters of a yard of garden worm. But the old tub of a boat was restful, and secure, too. I couldn’t very well get pounced on unawares so long as I was moored in midstream; and that was a consideration after what I had gone through. So I sat in the boat, ostensibly to fish, but actually to meditate.

I had plenty to meditate about. The material had been accumulating since I came to Canterbury a little over a week ago. In that short time I had been arrested by an English detective and liberated; arrested again by the Russian Secret Police, and had escaped. And now, to my certain knowledge, the Russian Police ere still lurking in the neighbourhood, and the British detective had developed the companionable qualities of Mary’s little lamb. Wherever I went, that detective was sure to go. I was continually meeting him; and what made it worse was the offensive fiction that he kept of not observing me.

Sergeant Burbler’s proceedings were a puzzle to me. Did he still believe that I was connected with the gang of foreign criminals who had sheltered in the old manor house? It seemed impossible. But there was another explanation of his adhesiveness. The sergeant and I both believed that somewhere in that old manor house was concealed the treasure deposited three centuries ago by Simon Glynn; and each of us suspected the other of having some private information on the subject. Could it be Simon Glynn’s hoard to which I was indebted for so much of the sergeant’s society? It was impossible to say. And here I raised my eyes – and beheld the sergeant himself, angling from the bank.

He was at his old game, pretending not to see me. Which was ridiculous; for there I was a most visible reality. But I wasn’t going to have any more of this nonsense. I watched him stick a lump of cheese on his hook – in the hope, perhaps, that the Fordidge trout favoured the purine-free diet – and when he had made his cast, I addressed him by name. Then he pretended that he didn’t know me. Now I am no advocate for laxity in regard to etiquette; but when two men have rolled round a room together, have dusted the floor with one another, have prodded one another in the abdomen and pulled out handfuls of one another’s hair, I say that for either of them to pretend that they are not acquainted is mere paltry snobbery. I wasn’t going to have it. But, as he seemed to have got a bite, I waited to renew my attack.

I saw his line tighten. I watched him strike, and then begin to wind in his winch as if he were playing a little barrel organ. I saw him reach out stealthily for his landing net and crane over the bank, and still I kept a discreet silence. It was only when I had seen him disengage a waterlogged boot from his hook and rebait that I ventured to reopen conversation.

“I’m getting quite used to being arrested now,” I remarked.

“Oh,” said Burbler. “Who’s been arresting you?”

“The Russian Police have had another go at me,” I replied.

“Oh,” said Burbler. “Why did they let you go?”

“They didn’t. I let myself go.”

That excited his curiosity so far that he asked for particulars. I lashed the rudder over so as to give the boat a cast inshore and proceeded to give him a detailed account of those astonishing events that culminated in my escape from the Russian timber ship. He was profoundly interested in my adventures; there was no doubt of that. So much so that when I had finished my story I ventured to ask him a question or two about himself.

“You don’t suppose that that gang of crooks is still in this neighbourhood, do you?”

“Have I ever said I did?” was his Scottesque reply.

“No: but as you are remaining in neighbourhood yourself, I thought that, perhaps – well, that you might have some object in doing so.”

“Sounds reasonable,” he admitted, dryly. Then, after a brief pause, he remarked: “You seem to be putting in a bit of time in the neighbourhood yourself.”

“Yes,” I answered. “I have to superintend some repairs of Elham Manor House.”

“You’re taking your time about it,” said he.

“Oh, I haven’t begun. I’m waiting to consult with our new tenant and he hasn’t turned up yet. I can’t write to him because I don’t know where he is staying. He’s an American – Mr Jezreel P Damper – and these rich Americans are rather erratic in their movements.”

“What sort of repairs are you going to do?” Burbler asked carelessly.

Now, here I seemed to see an opportunity for pumping the taciturn detective as to his object in shadowing me in this singular manner. Accordingly, I replied, putting some slight tension on the actual facts:

“The repairs will probably involve some structural alterations. It’s an old house, you know, and it may need to be modernized a little.”

He took the bait with avidity – unlike the Fordidge trout. His sour visage brightened with an ingratiating smile as he exclaimed enthusiastically:

“How very interesting! Excuse my curiosity, but old buildings are rather a hobby of mine. Have you decided on any particular structural alterations?”

“No,” I replied, cramming the bait into his gizzard with both hands, so to speak; “I have hardly looked at the house yet.”

“Really!” he exclaimed. “Really! Might I just step into your boat? More convenient for conversation, you know.” And when I had edged inshore and let him scramble on board with his neglected tackle, he continued: “So you haven’t really looked over the house yet? I wonder at that. Don’t you think it would be wise to make a thorough inspection so as to be ready for your tenant when he arrives?”

As a matter of fact I had thought so. But since my two encounters with the Russian Secret Police, I had been rather shy of Elham Manor. I knew that they were watching it and that they had once obtained access to it; and the lonely old house was an awkward place in which to be caught by gentry of that kind. I explained this to the sergeant
– omitting to mention, however, that I had taken to carrying a revolver since my last adventure. Again he rose joyously like a hungry perch.

“I quite agree with you, Mr Cobb” – the rascal let my name drop inadvertently. “It would be most unwise of you to venture into the house alone. But if you want to look over it, I shall be delighted to accompany you: and, as I always carry a regulation revolver, you will be perfectly safe. What do you say?”

I didn’t quite know what to say. I wanted to look over the house but I didn’t particularly want Burbler; but still less did I want to be haled off to some Russian gaol. In the end I accepted Burbler’s offer, resolving to keep an eye on him in case he had any private information about Simon Glynn’s treasure.

“When would you like me to come with you?” he asked briskly.

“Any time you like,” said I.

“Well, why not now? There are several hours of daylight left.”

He tried to disguise his eagerness and failed miserably. Obviously he was, as Mr Bumble would have said, “on broken bottles” with anxiety to start.

“Don’t you want to have a try for the other boot?” I asked callously.

He cast a baleful glance at his last catch, which lay stranded on the bank, and, without reply other than a sour smile, proceeded to heave up our little hairpin of an anchor. A few minutes later we landed at the stairs belonging to the Royal George and passed unmolested through the garden and taproom out into the road.

As we trudged along together many thoughts passed through my mind. Obviously the sergeant was hot on the scent of Simon Glynn’s hoard and proposed to use me as a cat’s-paw to hook it out of its hiding place. But the question was, how much did he know? Had he some information about it that I had not? If so, I must watch him closely. As to my own knowledge on the subject, it was summed up in a passage in Boteler’s “Manor Houses of Kent”, which I had looked up at the Public Library in Canterbury. It read thus:

“In 1734, during some repairs, an aumbry was discovered behind the panelling of the dining room and in this was found a curious silver mirror, probably Glynn’s own handiwork, the frame of which bore this strange inscription:

“A harp and a Cross and good redd golde

Beneath ye cross with ye harp full nigh,

Ankores three atte ye foot of a tree

And a Maid from ye sea on high.

Take itt. ’Tis thine. Others have stepped over. Simon Glynn, 1683.”

“The meaning of this inscription has never been ascertained. The gateposts of Elham Manor House bear a harp and a cross respectively, and above the porch is a statue of a young Puritan lady, presumably Mistress Glynn. Hence it has been inferred that the lines refer to a treasure buried under the gatepost which bears the cross; but repeated excavations have failed to discover any such treasure.

“Simon Glynn is said to have had a mania for secret hiding places. Tradition speaks of several in the manor house – in one of which Axell, the regicide, is said to have lain concealed for some time – but their position (if they ever existed) has been forgotten. Perhaps Glynn’s hoard is still lying in some forgotten, secret strongroom.”

Thus the learned Boteler. He hadn’t very much to tell excepting that the treasure was still “untrove”. But one thing was clear to me: the people who had dug under the gatepost were fools. If the meaning of the doggerel had been as simple as that, Simon might as well have laid his treasure in the road for the first passing imbecile to pick up. There was some deeper meaning in that crude jingle and it must be my business to fathom it – unless Burbler had done so already.

These reflections brought us to the gates of the manor house; and here the sergeant halted to gaze reflectively at the traces of the “repeated excavations” and at the statue in its niche above the porch.

“I wonder who she was,” he said, nodding at the statue. “Do you think she looks like an Englishwoman?”

It was a transparent question. He was clearly thinking of “a Maid from the sea on high”. But, as it was not my business to enlighten him, I expressed ambiguous doubts, and we passed up the flagged path to the main door, into which I inserted the key.

For some time we rambled rather aimlessly through the rooms, waking the echoes with our footfalls on the massive oak floors. It was an eerie place, full of odd corners, little flights of stairs and great built-in cupboards. No two rooms seemed to be on the same level. It was a step or two up or down every time. And every room appeared to be set at an angle to its fellow; a wasteful arrangement as regards space, but an excellent one for a builder whose hobby happened to be secret hiding places.

I watched Burbler narrowly – and found him watching me. But all the same, his eye travelled inquisitively towards each cupboard or closet that we passed.

“Don’t you think this old panelling is rather a mistake?” said he, rapping at it with his knuckles. “Makes the place so dark, you know.”

“It does,” I agreed. “Perhaps I may have some of it down and plaster the walls if our tenant agrees.” This, I regret to say, was a sheer falsehood. Nothing would have induced me to mutilate the fine old house. But the tarradiddle served its purpose, for Burbler exclaimed excitedly:

“Shall you really? I hope you will allow me to be present when it is done. I am so very much interested in old buildings. And besides,” he added, as a brilliant afterthought, “it is quite possible that there may be some of the stolen property hidden here. That St Petersburg-Chicago gang used this house for some time, you know.”

“You don’t suppose they are hanging about here still, do you?” I asked.

Burbler looked about him – we were in the large drawing room at the time – and listened as if apprehensive of eavesdroppers. Then he replied:

“I don’t personally. But they haven’t turned up anywhere else; and my orders are to keep a watch on this house until they are run to earth or seen somewhere else. So, of course, I ought to be present when any structural alterations are made here, in case they have secreted the booty here. And, between you and me, Mr Cobb, it wouldn’t be a bad plan, if you thought of doing away with that panelling, for us to take some of it down ourselves, and avoid the inconvenience of inquisitive workmen. What do you say?”

I said I would think the matter over; and at that he was content to leave it for the present. But from that moment he developed a tendency to lag behind or stray away on various pretences: and whenever he did so, there came from adjoining rooms sundry mysterious tappings, as if some gigantic woodpecker had got loose in the house. But nothing of special interest occurred until we entered a large room at the back of the building, distinguished by peculiarly fine woodwork. It was a rather uncanny room, in spite of its beauty, for its panelling was carved throughout in high relief with very realistic grotesque figures, which seemed to start out from the walls in a manner that was really quite disturbing. And more alarming still was the broad, carved oak frieze that surmounted the walls below the heavy cornice, of which the chief ornament was a row of life-size masks, each one different from the others, and all, apparently, grotesque portraits of actual persons. The aspect of those masks was most diabolical. They grinned, they scowled, they sneered, and some of them stuck out their tongues; and their eyes – represented by deep-sunk holes – seemed to leer down on us with positively devilish malice. I wouldn’t have lived in that room for a thousand a year.

But this was not all. A further attraction in that ghostly apartment was a large armoire or cupboard of sepulchral aspect, built into the wall. I opened one of the folding doors and looked in; and then I shut it again rather quickly and turned away with as careless and uninterested a manner as I could assume at such short notice. For I had observed that it was fitted with massive, fixed shelves. Now everybody who knows anything about secret chambers is familiar with the cupboard with the sliding shelf that conceals a movable panel. Of course I couldn’t tell whether any of these shelves would slide out; but they looked uncommonly likely, and I thought I should prefer to try when I was alone. So I turned away and endeavoured to distract the sergeant’s attention from the cupboard.

But, bless you! he didn’t want any distracting. Not he! The one plain and palpable fact was that Sergeant Burbler hadn’t noticed the cupboard at all. He stared at the walls and the ceiling and the floor, but the cupboard had totally escaped his observation. He never looked at it – after the first glance.

We sauntered through a doorway into an adjoining room; a smallish chamber with no outlet save by the door by which we had entered, unless there was some concealed door in the panelling. Here we remained for a minute or two rapping at the wainscot and examining the window seat, and then Burbler strolled back into the other room “to have another look at those quaint figures on the walls”. I continued my investigations, which presently brought me to the disproportionately large open fireplace, the brick back of which I proceeded to test by a series of interrogatory thumps. It all sounded solid enough, but when I had delivered an extra heavy thump on the left-hand side, to my astonishment the brickwork itself began to move. A square patch, cleverly concealed by the joints between the bricks, swung round slightly on its centre, being evidently balanced on a pivot. I hastily closed it by pushing at the opposite end and then stole towards the door, with the intention of luring the sergeant to some distant part of the house and then returning alone to investigate. But Burbler was beforehand with me. As I approached the door it closed softly and a bolt was shot on the outside. The perfidious detective had bolted me in.

It was a quaint situation. With a self-satisfied grin I gave a thump or two on the door for the sake of appearances and then stole on tiptoe back to the fireplace. A hearty shove at the left side of the chimney back sent the panel of brickwork swinging on its pivot and disclosed a dark opening, Before entering I cautiously examined the mechanism, which was simple enough. The false brickwork was fixed to massive oak planks which revolved, as I have said, on pivots. There was no secret spring, but there was a strong bolt on the inside with which a fugitive could fix the panel immovably, and a handle with which to pull it open from within. Massive as it was, it moved quite easily and without a sound, which seemed strange, considering the long years of disuse – until one examined the pivot and found it smooth and bright and anointed with oil that was certainly not two and a half centuries old.

I stepped into the opening and shut the panel, fixing it with the bolt and reflecting gleefully on the surprise that Burbler would get when he came to let me out of the room. Striking a wax match, I saw a tiny brick staircase, not more than two feet wide, apparently built in the thickness of the wall, and began to ascend it with extreme caution – for one has to beware of “mousetrap staircases” in these old hiding holes. At the top was a passage or gallery of the same width, and on the right hand a small door. The latter I pushed open and entered a small chamber, about five feet by ten, well lighted from above by a false chimney, up which I peered, and caught the eye of a starling who was perched on top. The little room was furnished with an antique folding table, a fixed bench and a fine oaken chair – which must have been built in the room, since it was too large to come up the stairs, and which would have electrified Wardour Street. And that was all – excepting two blatantly modern cabin trunks.

At those two trunks I stared open-mouthed; and especially at the smaller of the two. For I had seen it before. It was, in fact, the identical trunk that I had seen when I first visited the old manor house. I knew what it contained. It was crammed with the costly booty of those rascals, the St Petersburg-Chicago gang. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds and golden baubles – a bushel or so of them – were here before me. They were mine for the mere taking! What an opportunity for a dishonest man! But I am not a dishonest man. And, incidentally, the trunk was now secured with a massive padlock.

When I had tested the weight of the two trunks, and found the smaller one considerably the heavier, I came out of the room and proceeded to explore the gallery. It was not quite dark. On the right-hand wall were a number of little circles of light; and as I stole silently along the brick floor, I was able to trace these patches of light to their source, which was a series of little round holes in the left-hand wall. A single glance at these told me what they were. They were the eye-holes of those appalling masks in the large room, and their purpose was obviously to enable a fugitive to watch and listen to the talk of pursuers or traitors in the room below.

I applied my eye to one of the holes and found that it commanded quite a large circular area; and at the centre of the circle was Detective-Sergeant Burbler. He had noticed the cupboard at last. In fact he had both the doors wide open and was tugging frantically at the shelves.

But he didn’t seem to have had much luck. He had, apparently, begun at the bottom and tried them all in turn; and none of them had budged a hair’s breadth. I watched him with a pitying smile. He had now come to the top shelf but one, and, as it was a little above his reach, he had to stand on a lower shelf to get hold of it. He tried it first quite gently, then more vigorously, and, as it still refused to move, he planted one foot against an upper shelf and tugged with might and main. And then it did move; and so did he. He shot away like a spring-jack and came down on his back with a bang that shook the house and the detached shelf clutched triumphantly in his paws.

He got up, stroking himself delicately and soliloquizing not at all delicately. And at that moment a quick footfall was heard approaching from an adjacent room. Burbler snatched up the shelf and made frenzied efforts to replace it. But if it had been difficult to get it out, it was impossible to get it back. It certainly entered its grooves – just enough to prevent the doors from shutting; and there it stuck, refusing to move either way. And there it still was when a stranger entered the room and swam into the magic circle of my field of vision.

A stern and wrathful-looking man was the newcomer, with a red face and a very large chin, and his manner was not more conciliatory than his appearance.

“What the deuce is the meaning of this, sir?” he demanded in a rasping voice and with a distinct American accent. “Who are you? and what are you doing in this house?”

I have never seen a man look such an unutterable fool as Burbler did at that moment. But he pulled himself together a little and retorted:

“I might ask the same question. Who are you? and what are you doing here?”

“You might,” said the stranger. “I can quite believe it of you. But I’ll tell you who I am. I am the tenant of this house and my name is Damper, if you want to know; Jezreel P Damper.”

“Oh,” said Burbler; “I’ve heard Mr Cobb speak of you.”

“Have you?” replied Damper. “Well, who are you, anyway?”

“I’m a police officer, sir,” said Burbler, with an abortive attempt to be impressive. “I have instructions to watch this house, as certain suspicious characters are known to have harboured in it.”

“Were you ‘instructed’ to destroy the landlord’s fixtures?” asked Damper, glaring at the displaced shelf.

Burbler began a windy explanation with certain references to stolen property, but Damper cut him short.

“Is Mr Cobb in the house?” he asked.

“He was here a minute ago,” replied Burbler. “He went into the next room. Perhaps he’s there still.” It did seem rather likely under the circumstances; but when the sergeant had slipped back the rusty bolt and looked into the room he evidently got a severe shock, for he came back looking very blank and puzzled.

“He seems to have gone away,” he mumbled, “but I expect he’ll be back presently.”

“Now see here,” said Damper. “That door was bolted and there isn’t any other. I guess you’ve been dreaming about Mr Cobb.”

“I assure you, sir,” protested Burbler, “that he was here a minute ago; and I have his full authority to search the premises thoroughly.”

Of course, that was a barefaced untruth, and I couldn’t allow it to pass. Lifting up my voice, I shouted:

“Nothing of the kind, sergeant. I gave you no authority whatever.”

My word! but that gave Burbler a start! He jumped like a cat that has sat down on an exploding cracker, and tried to look in all directions at once. But if Burbler was startled, Mr Damper was positively petrified; and, to be sure, it is a little disturbing to an incoming tenant to hear voices issuing apparently from the walls or ceiling.

“Would you mind stepping this way, Mr Cobb,” said the sergeant, after looking into the cupboard and up the chimney. I thought it about time to make my appearance on the scene, and accordingly retraced my steps along the passage, down the stairs and out through the concealed entrance, and finally shattered the sergeant’s nerves by emerging from the room which he had just seen to be empty.

Of course, Burbler had to be told about the box of “swag”, so I gave him the information forthwith; on which he dived jubilantly into the smaller room. But Mr Damper was much less pleased. He followed us with a distinctly worried expression and finally remarked:

“This is extremely disagreeable for me, Mr Cobb. The presence of this stolen property in the house naturally suggests that the thieves themselves are not far off and that they have access to the premises.”

“Oh, you needn’t be uneasy, sir,” said Burbler. “We shall soon clear the rascals out of this. Now, Mr Cobb, if you please.”

I pushed the square of brickwork open, and entering, preceded the sergeant up the stairs to the secret chamber. He pounced gleefully on the smaller trunk and proceeded to drag it away down the stairs, haughtily refusing my proffered assistance. I saw him struggle out with it through the opening, I heard him dump it down on the floor, and then he returned for the larger trunk.

“Hadn’t I better lend you a hand?” said I.

“Be good enough, sir, not to interfere,” he replied stiffly. “This is official business.”

I watched him lumber out with the trunk and heard him clatter down the stairs, which were now quite dark, owing, as I supposed, to his having pulled the panel to as he returned. When he reached the bottom there was a long pause, filled in with a sound of fumbling and low-toned profane soliloquy. At length he called out, with a sudden return to civility:

“Just step down here, Mr Cobb. You know how this thing goes better than I do.”

I skipped down the narrow stairs with alacrity and a little uneasiness.

“It’s quite simple,” I said. “You just catch hold of this handle and pull.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing,” growled Burbler.

I seized the handle and pulled at it vigorously; but the false door was as immovable as the Great Pyramid. Apparently some secret catch had released itself. I lit a wax match and examined the back of the panel, but without finding anything that could explain the phenomenon, while Burbler shouted to Mr Damper to give a good shove from the outside.

“Are you there, Mr Damper?” roared Burbler.

Apparently he was not, or was unable to hear us, for we heard no reply. Then we both scampered up the stairs in a mighty twitter – for it was really an exceedingly awkward situation – and made for the gallery, where each of us glued his eye to one of the peepholes preparatory to calling out. And then – Oh! what a sight was there, my countrymen! Mr Jezreel P Damper was certainly in full view, and no longer stern-faced and worried, but bland and smiling. But there were two other gentlemen also; one of whom – who looked, as to his hair, like a professional pianist – was at that very moment hoisting the precious cabin trunk on to his shoulder with the other man’s aid.

“Hi! there!” shouted Burbler. “What are you doing with that trunk?”

Mr Damper looked up with a gracious smile. “That you, Burbey?” he asked. “Sorry I can’t see your face. Let me introduce you to my two friends, Polopsky and Schneider. Turn round, Polly, and let the gentlemen see your beautiful hair.”

“You infernal scoundrel!” shrieked Burbler. “I suppose you are Jacob Mifflin?”

“You’ve hit it, sonny. You have indeed. Right in the middle. Clever boy!” and Mr Damper – or Mifflin – made a show, in pantomime, of patting Burbler on the head.

“You’re not going to leave us locked up here to starve, are you?” demanded the sergeant.

“Well,” replied Mifflin, “we just hate leaving you behind, sonny, but I guess we haven’t enough accommodation to take you with us. But you’ll be happy enough. You’ve got furnished apartments and board – there’s a week’s provisions in that trunk – and we shall send on the keys of the house with a little note to Mr Cobb’s agent in Canterbury.”

“When?” I shouted.

“Quite soon, Mr Cobb. Perhaps we may send them tonight. We don’t wish to inconvenience you. Oh, and there’s another little matter, Mr Cobb. I inferred from the interesting conversation that I happened to overhear just now in the big drawing room that you and the sergeant are looking around for some antique curios. Well, you’ll find some exceedingly remarkable ones in that very room, which we are leaving behind for want of transport facilities. The right-hand column under the arch there is a concealed door. It isn’t fastened. Give a good pull at the left corner and it will come open. The contents of the hiding place are yours for the taking. And now I must really tear myself away. Ta-ta, dear friends!”

He took off his hat with a flourish and made us an elaborate bow; and then he moved away out of our circle of vision and we heard his footsteps gradually die away in the distance.

“Well,” said Burbler, unglueing his eye at length, “this is a pretty mess that you’ve got us into!”

I was too disgusted to reply. Here I was, sealed up in this infernal hiding hole, my very life dependent on the doubtful goodwill of a band of ruffians. And why? Simply because this inquisitive booby of a policeman must go poking his nose into places where he had no business. It was abominable.

The sergeant and I crept out of the gallery, and our first proceeding was to fetch up the provision trunk. It was secured only with spring catches, and when we had unfastened these we found an ample supply of food and drink, including a gallon can of beer and another of water, all neatly packed in compartments. Apparently the gang had intended to remain in residence here for some time longer and had been compelled to migrate only by Burbler’s ridiculous prowlings and his absurd suggestions – overheard by them – of structural alterations. We inaugurated our tenancy by a good meal, and, as the light was now failing, we lit one of the candles that we had found in the trunk and fell to discussing our unsatisfactory situation.

“If those scoundrels don’t take any measures to get us released,” said I, “we shall have to make some effort to break out or else climb up the chimney.”

Burbler held the candle aloft and peered up the smooth-sided shaft.

“No,” he said, shaking his head; “there’s nothing to hold on by. But Mifflin will keep his word, or else why should he have told us of that stuff in the hiding hole? I wonder what it is, by the way. Can’t be of much value, or they wouldn’t have left it behind.”

I agreed that this was self-evident, and we returned to the question of a possible escape but without reaching any conclusion, though we talked far into the night. Finally we blew out the candle and settled ourselves for the night, Burbler on the fixed bench and I in the arm-chair.

It was about ten o’clock on the following morning when the sergeant and I, sitting disconsolately in our prison, were thrilled by a hollow “boom” that sounded infinitely distant.

“By gum!” exclaimed Burbler, “that was the front door!”

He sprang up and made for the gallery like a rabbit scuttling for its burrow, and I followed. Very soon the heavenly sound of a pair of creaky boots was borne to our ears and then a tremulous voice called out: “Mr Cobb! Are you here?”

“Yes!” I howled. “I’m here!”

As a guide to my exact locality, I must admit that this was not particularly lucid. But the boots continued to approach, and at length there appeared in my circle of vision a very nervous-looking young man, who stared about him apprehensively as he walked.

“Where are you, sir?” he asked.

“Here!” roared Burbler; on which the young man started violently and began to turn round like a joint of meat on a roasting-jack, staring at the walls as he turned.

“Would you go into the next room,” said I, “and see if there is anything against the back of the fireplace?”

“Yessir!” he replied; and away he went like a man in a dream. But he was back in a few moments with a simple and encouraging report.

“There’s a thick walking stick, sir, jammed under the chimney breast. Shall I remove it, sir?”

“If you please,” I answered, and Burbler and I made our way back along the gallery and down the little staircase. As we reached the bottom, I grasped the handle and gave a tentative pull. Oh, joy! Oh, unutterable relief! It yielded at once, and the panel of brickwork swung readily open. Our imprisonment was at an end. As I stepped out, I saw through the open doorway that estimable young man addressing himself to the ceiling of the next room.

“I’ve removed the stick, sir.”

“Thank you,” said I; on which he spun round with a smothered cry. But he recovered himself sufficiently to advance to meet us and hold out a bunch of keys and a note.

“Mr Damper’s keys, sir, and a note for you. Can I do anything more for you?”

“No, thank you,” I replied; and as he bustled away I opened the note, which Burbler undisguisedly read over my shoulder. It was unsigned and read as follows:

“I have kept my word, you see, like a burglar and a gentleman. Tell Burbey he needn’t trouble about us; we’re clean away. And don’t forget those curios. It’s the right-hand column that opens.”

“I wonder what the stuff is,” said Burbler. “We may as well go and see, as we’re here. Don’t-cher think so?”

I did, though, to speak the truth, my enthusiasm in respect of hiding holes was not quite what it had been; and accordingly we made our way to the drawing room as it was now called. There was no difficulty in finding the “column”; which was not a column at all but a Corinthian pilaster of carved oak; one of a pair that supported an elliptical arch against the end wall. Following Mifflin’s directions, Burbler seized the left-hand corner and gave a sharp pull, whereupon the whole shaft between the capital and the plinth opened, forming a tall, narrow door, and disclosing an extremely narrow flight of steps.

Burbler was extraordinarily polite. He not only held the door open for me to enter first, he actually remained outside to keep guard, as I observed on looking back from the top of the stairs. But here I had something fresh to think about, for I had come up against a solid wooden partition, and it seemed to me that vague sounds of movement and muffled voices proceeded from somewhere near at hand. I opened a small but massive door, and immediately the sounds became quite distinct; so much so that I had some thoughts of turning back and summoning the sergeant.

But pride and curiosity impelled me to advance. Passing through the doorway I traversed a short, narrow passage which brought me to another partition, in which was a square trap or door secured by a bolt. I drew back the bolt, and, pulling open the trap, which was very thick and heavy, looked into a small brick chamber, which, like my late prison, was lighted by a false chimney.

The little dungeon-like chamber contained three men; and I may say that we looked at one another with mutual astonishment. For the three prisoners were the Russian Police Agents who had kidnapped me but a short time since and who had, doubtless, believed me to be at the bottom of the sea. They looked wretched enough now, for they were all handcuffed and loosely linked together with a chain, which had been passed round a beam that crossed the cell and secured with a padlock. A sack of ship’s biscuit and a couple of buckets of water had kept them from starvation but had not induced hilarious spirits.

We stared at one another in silence for a moment or two; then I ventured to ask:

“How came you to be shut in here, Herr von Bommel?”

The German’s eyes flashed behind his spectacles and he exclaimed:

“Ach! It vos zat villain Mifflin, bot I shall catch him! He shall bay for zis. Ja! I shall catch him yet” (he didn’t look much like it at the moment). “And you vill let us out, sir? You vill not bear a crutch for our liddle mistague?”

“Certainly, I will let you out,” said I, “only you mustn’t make any more mistakes, you know.”

The keys of the padlock and the handcuffs hung on a nail just out of the prisoner’s reach. I unlocked the padlock, and, promising to unfasten the handcuffs downstairs, took the precaution to slip out through the trap and hurry down in advance. The three prisoners soon followed; and when I had released their hands, they departed, in deep dejection and in company with Sergeant Burbler, to report the escape of the gang.

I have never seen them since – the foreign gentlemen, I mean. As to Detective-Sergeant Burbler – but that is another story, and must be reserved for another occasion.