A Little World

by George Manville Fenn

There, beneath the door, was the key plainly to be seen, for the light from a staircase window fell upon it; but it was out of reach, and the aperture would not allow the passage of her fingers. She knelt there though, biting her nails for a minute and listening, before taking up the splint that before had been her friend.

She tried to reach the key, passing the splint beneath the door, but it was not long enough. She took another—sane enough now in her desire to escape—and tearing a strip from her handkerchief, bound two splints tightly together, and tried again.

Yes; they would pass under easily, and she could touch the key and move it. She could hear it glide along the oilcloth for some distance in one direction; so she tried from the other side, and moved it back.

Forwards and backwards she moved that key a score of times, indefatigable in her efforts; but it would come no nearer, for there was an inequality over which it would not pass—the floorcloth at that spot was doubled.

Suddenly she stopped, for she heard steps upon the stairs, and Mrs Walls came by, her dress brushing against the key and slightly altering its position. Then once more all was silent; she had passed by without noticing that it was out of the door, and nothing was heard but the faint sound of the traffic in the street.

The splints again at work—this way, that way, but no sound of grating key upon the oilcloth, and after many trials, the prisoner laid her head upon the floor, and tried to catch sight of the object of her search.

There it was: just the ring visible, but beyond the reach of the splints, for it had been swept along a few inches by the dress. But three splints might do it: so another was tied to the others, and once more the trial was made.

Joy! They touched the key; but they bent and would hardly stir it from the weakness of the wood.

What should she do? How could she get out? Why did she allow herself to be trapped when it seemed to her troubled brain that her little one was calling! But if she stayed, would he let her see her child? Had not he said—had not the tailor said—it was dead. It was a lie—a cruel lie—it could not be dead. They had hidden it away from her where she was never to see it more.

With these thoughts exciting the crushed and patient sufferer, she paced round and round the room, to pause, at last, to tear at the screws that held the lock to her prison door, and only to leave off with bleeding fingers.