Heavily—heavily passed the hours.
At length the dungeon became pitch dark; and then the murderer saw sights more appalling than when the faint gleam stole through the grating.
In due time the sonorous voice of Saint Sepulchre proclaimed the hour of nine.
Scarcely had the last stroke of that iron tongue died upon the breeze, when a noise at the head of the spiral staircase fell upon the murderer's ears. The trap-door was raised, and the well-known voice of Dick Flairer was heard.
"Well, Bill—alive or dead, eh—old fellow!" exclaimed the burglar.
"Alive—and that's all, Dick," answered Bill Bolter, ascending the staircase.
"My God! how pale you are, Bill," said Dick, the moment the light of the candle fell upon the countenance of the murderer as he emerged from the trap-door.
"Pale, Dick!" ejaculated the wretch, a shudder passing over his entire frame; "I do not believe I can stand a night in that infernal hole."
"You must, Bill—you must," said Flairer: "all is discovered up in Union Court there, and the police are about in all directions."
"When was it found out? Tell me the particulars—speak!" said the murderer, with frenzied impatience.