“Then I hope you’ll make matters straight if I’m hurt, my lads,” said the sergeant grimly.
“That we will, sir,” chorussed the men, and then there was quite a competition for the second post of honour; as, without another moment’s hesitation the sergeant crept into the bin, thrust his lantern forward as far as he could, looked eagerly round, and then, staff in hand, he regularly shot himself forward, and called to his men to follow. But there was no enemy to encounter: nothing to be seen but bins round the cellar, a box or two, the open hole, and the furnace.
“Who’d have thought of there being this place here?” said the sergeant to Mr Sterne, when ma mère and her son both stood shuddering in the cellar with them; the Frenchwoman creeping towards the boxes, her fingers working the while. “Old houses, you see, sir; gentlemen’s houses once; and this was an old cellar; wine in it, too, seemingly, and forgotten. Melting-pot, of course,” he continued, pointing to the crucible. “Nice handy spot for it; and of course he has made himself all right before now. Gone down to one of the sewers, I suppose,” he said. “And while we were hunting him t’other day, he had crawled up here, and was taking his port. Boxes, eh? what’s in the boxes?” One of the men was already examining the treasure-chests, and the agony in the old Frenchwoman’s face was pitiful, as she saw the lids opened of first one and then the other, to find in place of the riches she had pictured, broken glass, worn out crucibles, and brickbats that had formed part of the furnace.
“Rubbish!” said one of the men, when the old woman reeled, and would have fallen if the curate had not caught her in his arms and seated her upon one of the boxes.
“Nice place to go down, sir; take that old lady out in the fresh air,” said the sergeant, peering at the black opening, and listening to the quick rush of water. “There,” he said to one of his men, “you needn’t stew. I ain’t going to send you where I wouldn’t go myself.”
The man spoken to held up his hand to command silence, for at that moment there came a strange rustling noise, mingled with the fierce rush of the water, while before they could recover from their surprise, drenched with the foul stream, his distorted face looking absolutely fiendish and inhuman, the head of Jarker appeared for a moment at the hole.
“Help!” he gasped, with a cry that rung through the place, but before hand could touch him he had fallen back with a heavy splash: there was the sound of water rushing furiously along with a hollow, echoing, gurgling noise; and the men stood looking at one another.
“Here, for God’s sake, men,” cried Mr Sterne, “do something!” and, weak, and trembling with horror, he stepped towards the hole; but the sergeant had his arms round him in a moment.
“Keep still, sir,” he said sternly; “we’ve done our part, I think. It’s certain death to go down there; they’re flushing the sewers, I should say, or else there’s a heavy fall of rain somewhere. He’s half-way to the Thames by now.”
The next moment Mr Sterne was telling himself that he had left his room too soon, for a strange sick feeling came over him, and the place around looked misty and indistinct; but his was not the only sleepless couch that night, for the old Frenchwoman moaned bitterly at the destruction of the Château en Espagne which she had raised.