"Paul! Dearest!"
This was no fancy born of a delirious brain and the thick fumes of dynamite. It came from the wall a little way ahead of me. I crawled the three feet that the little cave afforded and put my hands upon the rock, feeling its surface inch by inch. There was a crevice there, not large enough to have permitted a bird to pass—the merest fissure.
"Jacqueline! Is that you, dear?" I called.
"Where are you, Paul?" she whispered back.
"Behind the wall," I answered. "You are not hurt, Jacqueline?"
"I am lying where you left me, dear. Paul, I—I heard."
"You heard?" I answered dully. What did it matter now?
"Why didn't you tell me, Paul? But never mind. I am so glad, dearest! Can you come through to me?"
I struggled to tear the rocks away; I beat and bruised my hands in vain against them.
"Soon," I muttered. "Soon. Can you breathe well, Jacqueline?"