WITHIN THE TOWER
Stanley's first thought as he hung suspended over the gulf, when the
plate had so treacherously revolved, was of self-preservation. And,
indeed, he had need to think, for it seemed highly probable that within
the next few minutes he might be dashed to pieces on the floor of the
secret chamber, forty feet below. To pull himself up over that slippery
stone was, he found, a sheer impossibility. To let go of his precarious
hold and drop to the bottom of the well was certain death. Yet the sharp
edges of the plate were already cutting into his hands, and it could
only be a matter of a few moments when his arms would refuse to support
any longer the weight of his body. Evidently he must find some means of
escape from these two alternatives, and that right speedily, or for him
the end of all things would be at hand. Below him the wall stretched
smooth as glass. No vine grew upon it to which he might cling, no
crevice in which he might put his foot. He cast his eye round in a wild
search for some possible means of salvation, and, as he did so, he saw
one infinitesimal chance of escape. So slight was it, that no one, in
less desperate straits, would have dared to take the risk, but he had no
choice.
He had noticed, when taking his precarious walk along the edge of the
battlements, that an old rusty iron chain was loosely twisted round the
bar which stretched across the diameter of the well, about on a level
with where he hung suspended. It might be possible, springing into the
air, to catch the end of this chain, which terminated in a ring. He had
done that sort of thing more than once in gymnasiums, though under very
much more favourable conditions. Even if he succeeded in catching the
ring in his flight, he might only find himself in a worse position. The
chain might refuse to unwind from the bar, or the whole contrivance,
rusted by years of exposure, might snap under his weight. But even if
this were so, he reflected, he could but drop to the bottom of the well,
which he was bound to do in any event, if he stayed where he was, while
every foot that the chain unrolled before breaking was twelve inches
less for him to fall. Evidently there was not an instant to lose, for
his fingers were already getting stiff and numb with the tension they
were undergoing. So, setting his teeth, he sprang into the air, on this
last desperate venture. For one horrid second he felt the ring which his
fingers touched, slipping through his grasp. Then with one supreme
effort, he crooked his hand through it, and swung suspended by one arm.
A moment later, he had brought his other hand to his aid. But scarcely
had he steadied himself, when the bar, round which the chain was wound,
and which evidently worked in a socket, began to revolve. It was rusty
and out of gear, and as it let him down, it gave him the most frightful
series of jerks, which seemed to dislocate every bone in his body. It
would let out three or four feet of chain at lightning speed, and then,
catching in its rusty gearings, would stop with a racking jerk,
remaining still perhaps a whole minute, before it moved on again, to
repeat the operation. Moreover, as he got farther and farther down the
well, and there was a greater length of chain above him, it began to
oscillate frightfully, twirling him round in one direction till his head
swam, and then reversing the operation. All tortures must come to an
end, however, and when he was ten feet from the bottom of the well, a
corroded link snapped, and he dropped the remaining distance like a log,
bringing down thirty feet of iron chain on top of him.
The blow which he received rendered him instantly unconscious, and it
was hours later before he came to himself. His first knowledge of the
world and things in general was a realisation that in some mysterious
way the entire firmament was divided in half by a black band, and it was
only as his brain became a little clearer that he realised that he was
lying on his back looking up at the rim of the well. He sat up, and
examined himself critically. He had evidently cut his head slightly, for
it was still bleeding. Moreover, he was black and blue from head to
foot, but he was rejoiced to find, after a careful examination, that no
bones were broken, nor had he even suffered a sprain, and in a few
moments he was able to stand upright.
His position, however, was none the less precarious. The breaking of the
chain had ended for ever any chance of his ascending the tower, and he
must either effect an entrance through the roof or depend on the very
uncertain chance of attracting notice from without, to escape
starvation.
Lying face down on the floor of the roof, he tried to look out of the
little holes in the mouths of the gargoyles, but could see nothing, and
from the appearance of the sky over his head, he judged that it must be
growing dark. This reminded him of his bicycle lamp, which a hasty
examination proved to be intact, and feeling that he would at least have
light for his investigations, was a great source of comfort to him.
His next procedure was to examine the roof. Here, fate once more
befriended him, for he very quickly found a trap-door and, moreover, was
able to lift it. Looking down he could see nothing but utter darkness.
However, this did not deter him, and he hastily made his arrangements
for further investigation, first taking the precaution to light a match
and drop it into the opening. It fell, about ten or twelve feet,
evidently striking the floor and burning there a minute or two before it
went out. It revealed nothing but surrounding darkness, but it apprised
him of the fact he was most desirous to know, that the atmosphere was
not mephitical. He determined, nevertheless, to take his time about
descending, and left the trap-door wide open, so that as much fresh air
might get in as possible.
In the interval he amused himself by taking off one of his socks and
unravelling it as best he could. Weaving a cord with the thread thus
obtained, he lowered his bicycle lantern, which he had lighted, into the
room below, swinging it gently back and forwards. Its glancing rays told
him that the apartment was entirely bare and deserted, and showed him
also a narrow wooden ladder, black with age, leading up to the trap-door
above which he stood. Drawing up the light, he took it in his hand, and
being cautious after his recent experience, reached down and tested each
round of the ladder most carefully. To his surprise it held his weight,
and a moment later he was on the floor of the secret chamber.
The apartment had no secrets to reveal. It was absolutely bare, and
empty of anything except a broken old sconce lying in a corner. The
whole room, however, was indescribably dusty and musty, and he was very
thankful to push aside a curtain of chain mail and descend the
staircase.
At its foot he saw lying the coveted papers. Forgetful of everything
else, he sat down upon the lowest step, and by the light of his lantern
proceeded to examine them. They more than fulfilled his utmost
expectations. There was a complete cipher and its key, a full list of
the members of the cabinet who were to pass upon the treaty, with
comments on each, and a memorandum of the amounts to be given to certain
of them, coupled with suggestions as to the attitude which Darcy should
take towards others, together with precise instructions as to the
carrying out of the plot; the whole signed by Riddle in the interests of
the firm. The evidence was complete, and Stanley gasped as he realised
the advantage of this tremendous stroke of luck. One fact which his
perusal had elicited caused him to draw a long sigh of relief. Miss
Fitzgerald's name was not mentioned in the incriminating document, and
so much did he wish to believe her innocent, that in spite of all
accumulated evidence, he felt a sense of exultation that he could still,
if worst came to worst, shield her from the effects of her own folly. He
told himself that he might, after all, prove to the satisfaction of his
own conscience that she was innocent of criminal intent. Darcy he would
have no mercy for. He must be punished for his crime, and the fact of
his being the criminal would give Inez her freedom, and then---- Ah! but
if Belle Fitzgerald was innocent--was he not in honour bound to _her_?
And at that moment he realised that he had mistaken pity for love, that
Darcy possessed the woman in the world most worth having, and that he
was unworthy of her.
His meditations were interrupted by the sound of voices near him.
Somebody laid a hand on the other side of the door. They were tampering
with it again, and, for more reasons than one, he wanted the fact of
his having gained entrance to the tower to remain a secret. Putting the
letter in his inside pocket, he softly retraced his steps to the upper
chamber.
To his consternation, he had scarcely reached there when the door below
was opened. How this had been effected, he did not know. He had been so
interested in the documents, that he had had no time to examine the
mechanism of the portal. At first he heard only the voices of Riddle and
Kingsland. Fearing that the conspirators only were present, and that,
being three to one, he might be overpowered, and his precious evidence
wrested from him, he endeavoured, by the agitation of the steel curtain
and the red light of his lamp, to contrive such ghostly illusions, as
should serve to deter them from investigating the upper portions of the
tower. It can be imagined therefore what a welcome relief
Kent-Lauriston's tones were to him, and the instant he knew that his
friend was below, he felt perfectly safe from an attack by force. He
therefore lost no time in descending, his footsteps producing, as we
have seen, a most startling effect on those below.
Kent-Lauriston was the first to recognise him, and seeing at a glance
that his clothes were torn and spotted with blood, he sprang forward to
assist his friend and helped him into the hall.
"Where's my letter, you thief?" cried Darcy.
"You've come too late," replied the Secretary, recovering himself.
"You've come too late. The treaty will go through."
Darcy growled an oath as the measure of the Secretary's knowledge became
known to him.
"I know who's put you on to it," he cried. "It's that cursed Irish----!"
"Go!" cried Stanley, in a burst of wrath at this insult to a woman. "Go,
before I knock you down, and as you value your safety, meet me here at
eleven to-morrow morning. You've held the whip hand long enough. It's my
turn now."