"We've crossed the channel," said Armstrong in a whisper that the vaulted walls made unnaturally loud.
A little later they noticed ahead of them a space dimly illuminated. Moving forward cautiously, they found themselves at the bottom of a circular shaft. Far above them they saw daylight in parallel streaks.
"A dry well," murmured Warrender, "roughly boarded over." Consulting his compass, he added, "Still eastwards. Rummy if the tunnel goes to the Red House."
Pursuing their way in utter darkness as before, the floor still rising very slightly, they became aware by and by that the tunnel had enlarged. From the centre they could not touch the wall on either side, and the greater lightness of the air gave them a sense of spaciousness. Suddenly Armstrong, who was leading, stumbled over something on the floor and fell forward. His hands, instinctively thrust out, were arrested by a bundle encased in tarpaulin. He straightened himself. For a moment or two they waited, straining their ears. There was no sound.
"A light," murmured Armstrong.
The light revealed that they had arrived at a small chamber about twelve feet square and seven or eight feet high. The farther end was broken by the tunnel. In each side wall, a foot below the roof, were let a couple of iron rings, deeply rusted.
"For holding torches," said Armstrong.
The chamber was empty except for three bundles on the floor. It was over one of these that Armstrong had stumbled. Two of them were completely covered with tarpaulin, and roped; the third was partly open at the top.
"They're like the bundles I saw Rush and the other fellow carry up from the boat," said Armstrong.
"Queer smuggling," said Warrender, bending over the open bale. "It seems to hold nothing but paper."