Suddenly the deadly stillness was broken by a sound outside, which much agitated him.
"Ha, what sound is that?" cried Mole; "yes, oh, joy, it is the sound of a flute."
Could he mistake that note?
Who could make such melancholy strains but the desolate orphan—the melodious Figgins?
Had Figgins, forgetting all past differences and animosities, come to soothe Mole's captivity, in this manner, or—horrible thought!—was it a strain of malice or revengeful triumph that emanated from the long-suffering and tortured instrument.
But the flute did not long continue playing, and Mole conjectured that it was only a signal to which he was expected to respond.
He had no mode whatever of doing so, excepting a melancholy whistle, which, however, served its purpose.
Through the bars of the prison, which were far too high up for him to reach, a small object suddenly came crashing, and very narrowly did it escape falling upon the prisoner's nose.
Reaching out his hand in the dark, Mr. Mole picked it up, and found it to be a stone wrapped in paper.
He knew at once that it must be a written message from his friends outside, and again he whistled as a signal that he had received it.