Up to the time of which we are writing, since the formation of that strange lurking-hole in the days of the famous Jonathan Wild, three or four persons had alone availed themselves of the vault as a means of personal concealment. In the first place, the secret existed but with a very few and secondly, it was only in cases where life and death were concerned that a refuge was sought in so fearful an abode.
When the grate was removed and the trap-door was opened, the entire frame of Bill Bolter became suddenly convulsed with horror. He dreaded to be left to the mercy of his own reflections!
"It's infernally damp," said Bill, his teeth chattering as much with fear as with the cold.
Fearful, however, of exciting the disgust and contempt of his companions at what might be termed his pusillanimous conduct, he mustered up all his courage, shook hands with the Cracksman and Flairer, and then insinuated his person through the aperture.
"You may as well take the pipes and baccy along with you, old feller," returned Dick.
"And here's a thimble-full of brandy left in the flask," added the Cracksman.
"This evenin' I'll bring you a jolly wack of the bingo," said Flairer.
Provided with the little comforts just specified, the murderer descended the spiral staircase into the vault.
The trap-door closed above his head; and the grate was replaced with more than usual care and caution.
The Cracksman and Dick Flairer then took their departure from the old house, in the foundation of which a fellow-creature was thus strangely entombed alive!