“If fear is born of unavailing sorrow then I am much afraid,” I answered.
Her laugh broke drearily on the stillness. “You must come,” she went on. “It will do you good and act like a tonic. When we get back again you will feel quite cheerful, and congratulate yourself upon your luxurious life as a guest.”
I made no further reply.
We had come into a long narrow passage, so gloomy and dark that it seemed more like the passage through the thick wall of an old church than anything else.
It appeared dusty and full of cobwebs despite its evident occasional use, and I remember I coughed once, because there was some irritating matter in the air.
At the other end of the passage was another door. It was locked, and I noticed for the first time that she unlocked it before we passed through; and also from this time I became conscious that she was carrying a large bunch of keys.
The gloom beyond was greater than it had been before. It was deepened by a narrow spiral staircase leading sheer down for what might have been several hundred feet. It was a giddy, gloomy depth, and would have made dizzy any mortal brain, but we passed down it silently and swiftly, she leading, I following, till we lighted on firm ground again amidst total darkness.
Where we had come to I could not tell, as the isolation and heaviness were complete.
“Can you hear anything?” she whispered in my ear. And again she whispered,—
“Listen.”