“It’s a mighty odd business,” said the officer.
He walked back past where Mr. Brown and Will were busily engaged counting the goods. Mr. Fitler eyed the man closely. It was Will’s old enemy, but they were amicably engaged now. A nervous, quick-motioned, sharp-speaking person, whose worst fault was his temper.
“I think Brown is all right,” was the officer’s silent comment, after a long look at the man’s face.
“You have a cellar under this?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Mr. Wilson. “Devoted to coal, empty boxes, and rubbish generally. It has no entrance, except from here.”
“We will go down,” said the officer.
“It is rather dark there,” said Mr. Leonard. “We will need a light. Will, get a lamp, and follow us into the cellar.”
“All right,” said Will, dropping a piece of goods with a thump on the floor. “I’ll put you through.”
They proceeded to the sub-cellar, Will following down the stairs with a lighted lamp. It was a long, dark room, imperfectly lighted by two very narrow windows at the back. In front a coal vault extended under the pavement. This was empty now of coal, and its iron grating fastened from within.
As Mr. Wilson had said, the cellar was half-filled with rubbish. Its stone walls had been whitewashed, but were brown enough now, their mortar eaten with dampness. The earth floor was rather yielding, as if from dampness.