He applied additional force, under the impression that some heavy piece of furniture might have been dragged over the trap: but still it was as motionless as the thick, solid, substantial flooring in which it was set.
Rainford returned the pistols to his pockets, so that nothing might impede the application of all his strength to the task on which his liberty depended: but no—the door moved not!
The highwayman bit his under lip almost till the blood started forth—for he felt that his calmness was abandoning him.
Then how bitterly did he repent the course which he had adopted after his interruption in the laboratory by the appearance of Doctor Lascelles. Instead of trusting himself to that hideous subterranean, he should have essayed an escape by means of the front rooms of the house.
Regrets were, however, useless:—he must act—and not waste time in self-reproach!
Yes: he must act—if he would not die in that dreadful place, where the vindictiveness of Old Death would be sure to leave him!
To act!—oh! how easy to think of acting!—But how was he to put his thought into execution?
A stone pavement beneath—stone walls on either side—a stone ceiling overhead—at one end an avenue closed by a huge clock—at the other a trap-door evidently secured on the outside,—these were the obstacles—these were the barriers against which he had to contend.
And what were the implements within his power?
His two hands—a clasp-knife—and a pair of pistols!