“Will you come?” said Mr Judex.
He went before, treading softly, and holding his lamp high overhead. Gilead followed as quietly, through the empty hall, to the head of the basement stairs, and down them into a vortex of reeling night. Domestic catacombs, rows of cobwebby bells, disconnected gas-meters, a remote gurgle of drain-water, horrible, secret, suggestive of blood-choked lungs labouring somewhere in the darkness, a clammy smell of distempered walls and icy flags—all these things, glimpsed or divined in passing, were spectrally impressed upon his consciousness as he pursued the tiny jack-o’-lantern dancing before him into foundering glooms. And then suddenly, turning off into a deep alcove, they had brought up before a door, strong and solid, standing slightly ajar, with a great key in its lock. “The wine-cellar!” whispered his guide; and he gingerly swung open the door, and backed to the wall.
“I await your solution of the problem, sir,” he said. “Will you oblige me by pronouncing upon it?” With a curious tingling in his nerves, Gilead entered.
“At the other end, if you will favour me,” said Mr Judex.
Thrilling in the prospect of some unconscionable discovery, Gilead advanced an uncertain step or two. On the instant the light went out, and a heavy slam and snap at his back told him that the door had been shut and locked upon him.
He stood for some moments absolutely still and incredulous; then turned in a labouring way, and saw the intense darkness split low down with a faintest edge of light. He stumbled towards it, and found the door.
“Mr Judex!” he cried—“Mr Judex!”
A tiny chuckling laugh reached him from without.
“How can I resolve the problem without light?” he pleaded, conscious of a sudden moisture breaking out over his face and chest.
Again the small laugh came to him, followed by a voice.