As the door banged to and was locked, Roach uttered a wild cry and threw
himself upon the floor, covering the back of his head with his hands, as
he thrust it into the corner farthest from where the powder was
sputtering and sending up tiny clouds of smoke.
Arthur shrank away against the wall for a moment, glancing wildly at the
broken lantern and the lamp-wick, burning still in a little pool of oil,
while the powder kept flashing out, darting from grain to grain, where
they had been scattered about the floor. Then the tiny flames divided,
one set running towards the portmanteau, in which the partially-emptied
tin had been thrown, the other going by fits and starts in the direction
of the iron entry.
This nerved the younger man to desperation, and he made a dash at the
grains upon the floor, to sweep them away before they reached the loaded
door, feeling convinced, in his agony of fear, that the little burning
train would somehow communicate with the powder with which he had
charged the lock. But in spite of his efforts the fire was too quick,
the flame running swiftly along by the bottom of the frame, and with a
yell of despair he dashed to the other corner of the far side of the
lobby, to imitate the butler, expecting to hear the charge explode, and
then the iron door driven back to crush them to death.
It seemed long minutes to the two wretched men as they crouched there
with their eyes shut, but it was only the matter of a few seconds'
suspense before the little chamber was in total darkness, and filled
with the dull, dank reek of the burnt powder.
At last the footman raised his head cautiously, with hope reviving. The
charge had not gone off and the tin had not been reached.
He looked in the direction of the great safe, but all was black, and,
rising slowly, he felt his way to the door to try if it were really
fast; while as his hands glided over it he found that it fitted so
closely that he could hardly make out the crack between door and frame.
The main object of his search, though, was for the lock, in the hope
that he should be able to force it off with one of the wedges, and then,
armed as they were, he and his companion might escape.
But there was no lock to attack, no key-hole. That which he sought was
of the mortice pattern, buried in the heavy lining, and wherever he
passed his hands, the surface was perfectly smooth.
"Curse the old Jezebel!" he muttered. "Here, Roach, old man, rouse up.
We're done, but we can't stay here--we must get out somehow. Did you
see her? I wish I'd tied her up a little tighter."
"No, no, no," groaned Roach. "I did not see her. She must have got
free somehow. I only felt her hands as she jumped upon me from behind
and drove me forward on to you. Is--is the powder going off?"
"No! Get up. There isn't a spark now. Phew! it's enough to stifle a
fellow. Where's that wine?"
"I put it somewhere in this corner. Yes, here."
"Give us hold. Be sharp."
There was a clicking noise in the utter darkness and after feeling about
for a few moments, the younger man grasped the bottle, drank heavily,
and passed it to his trembling companion, who snatched at it and drank
deeply in turn.
"That's better," cried Arthur, sharply. "Now then, the matches."
"No, no, don't strike a light. Are you mad?"
"Pretty nigh, but we must risk it or we can never get out."
"We never shall get out alive," groaned Roach.
"Well, I mean to," said his companion; "so here goes. I can't use the
hammer and chisels and wedges in this blessed darkness."
There was the crackle of a match, and the elder man uttered a cry of
horror as he shrank into his corner again, but as the wax taper burned
up steadily in Arthur's fingers, and no explosion followed, he obeyed
his companion's order and picked up the lamp, which proved not to be
utterly drained of oil, and after a little patient effort began to burn
again as it was replaced in the broken lantern.
"Now, then, sharp's the word," said Arthur. "Hold the light while I
chisel out the wood till I can get at the lock. Mustn't use the hammer,
or it will put her on her guard. Wonder whether she's outside
listening."
There was not a sound to be heard, and with Roach tremblingly holding
the light, Arthur worked away with the sharpest-edged wedge, but made
little progress, for a few cuts were sufficient to prove that the door
was of the hardest oak, and when the man had been carving away for
nearly an hour, with the perspiration streaming down his face, it was to
throw down the chisel in despair, for the wood proved to be only the
casing of an iron door of great strength.
"Give me the bottle," said Arthur, panting. "Can't you do something
beside shivering there?"
Roach groaned as he handed the bottle.
"Man wants a bit o' Dutch courage over a job like this."
"We shall never get out," groaned Roach.
"Not if it's left to you, old man. You'd turn it into a tomb at once.
Here, I've left you a drop. Tip it off, and see if it'll put some pluck
into you. There, I've tried fair play and quiet; now it's got to be
foul play and noise. Give me hold of the hammer and let's see what a
wedge'll do."
"Hist! What's that?"
Arthur needed no telling to be silent. Snatching the light from his
companion, he reached over to the portmanteau and took out the two small
revolvers, handed one to his companion, and whispered to him--
"It was the lock. Someone coming. Don't fire without you're obliged.
I'll try the hammer first."
As he spoke he blew out the little lamp, and set it down, before
standing facing the door with his hand raised, ready to strike down the
first who entered.
Some minutes must have elapsed without further alarm, and the two men
were ready to believe that the sharp snap they had heard must have come
from the iron door of the closet, the frame springing back after being
strained by the application of the wedges that had been driven in.
All at once, just as an attack was about to be made once more upon the
way by which they had entered, and Arthur had taken a fresh match from
his box, a soft light began to dawn, grew rapidly, and dazzled their
eyes, as they strove to make out whence it came, and stood ready once
more to strike.
It was not from the passage door, but from the ceiling just over the
great safe, and as the men stood trembling with fear and excitement,
there was a spurt of smoke from the great iron safe, a dull concussion,
and the footman fell back. While as the butler stood staring upward,
his face ashy grey in the soft light, as the smoke curled about a
glowing bulk, there was a second spurt of smoke, and concussion, the
wretched man fell forward across his companion, and the light grew
dimmer in the heavy clinging vapour, slowly dying out into utter
darkness, while the silence was as that of the tomb.