The doors were carefully locked, and Saul Harrington shuddered, his brow contracted, and he seemed to be looking far away into futurity as he followed his host upstairs into the study, where the cork was drawn, fresh cigars lit, and, after placing the keys in the cabinet drawer, another was opened, and an oblong book taken out.
“Look at that, my lad. Cellar book. There you are—age and quantity of all the wines, and when laid down.”
“Wonderful care he took of all these things.”
“The old man was a trump. But look here, Saul, my lad: ‘Cellar number seven entered by bricked-up archway from number six.’ Remember number six?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do; where I spoke when you were staring at the blank wall. That’s the way into number seven. And read here: ‘Eight bins, four on each side. Three on the right, port; four on the left, sherry. The fourth bin on the right I shall fill with Madeira when I come across a good vintage. Bricked up, JH.’”
“Yes, my uncle’s writing,” said Saul, looking eagerly, and greatly attracted by the book. “That’s a bricked-up cellar, then, beyond the others?”
“Yes, with the bins also bricked-up. We’ll break through some day, Saul, and taste them.”
“We will,” said the latter, rising hastily, and giving his head a shake, as if to clear away some mist. “What, going?”
“Yes,” said Saul huskily. “I must be off. Good-night, old fellow.”