He dismounted, and forcing his body through the aperture, came upon the dank twilight well, and looked down.
Then, as his eyes adapted their vision to the gloom, he saw that ineffectual hands had been busy at the grating—filing at it—chipping at the stones in which it was embedded—vainly, in that cabined space, endeavouring to force it from its iron grip.
“H’m!” muttered he, as he rent his way to the daylight once more. “Luck and Mr. Turk are my guardian angels hitherto. I must face this business in sober earnest.”
Walking round to the front again, he saw that Sir David had ridden away, and that Whimple was standing at the porch watching the operations of the men. Waiting until they were alone together for a moment—“Why did you never tell me of that attempt on the ‘Priest’s Hole’?” said he quietly.
Nothing of course in reply, but that same cursed look of distress and muttering of near inaudible evasions.
“Here,” he said in the same tone, “take my horse!”
He walked through the house till he came to a certain dreary stone chamber and to a ring set in the boards. Here he wrenched up the flap, and leapt into the dusky hole beneath.
There was no sign there of the least success having attended the efforts of the baffled rogues. The grating was immovable in its socket, stones and stanchions wedded endurably.
A narrow ledge for a seat projected from one side of the pit. Using this as a stepping-stone, he scrambled out and hurried off to superintend the placing of his furniture, leaving the flap open.