“That’s so,” Cecil confirmed.
Armadale was evidently satisfied by the information which Sir Clinton had thus conveyed to him indirectly. He squeezed himself against the wall and allowed the Chief Constable to come up to the head of the party. Sir Clinton threw his light down the passage in front of them.
“It looks like all-fours, now,” he commented, as the lamp revealed a steadily diminishing tunnel. “We may as well begin now and save ourselves the chance of knocking our heads against the roof.”
Suiting the action to the word, he got down on hands and knees and began to creep along the passage.
“At least we may be thankful it’s dry,” he pointed out.
The tunnel grew still smaller until they found more than a little difficulty in making their way along it.
“Have we much farther to go?” asked the Inspector, who seemed to have little liking for the business.
“The end’s round the next corner,” Cecil explained.
They soon reached the last bend in the passage, and as he turned it Sir Clinton found himself at the entrance to a tiny space. The roof was even lower than that of the tunnel, and the floor area was hardly more than a dozen square feet. A stone slab, raised a few inches from the ground, seemed like a bed fitted into a niche.
“A bit wet in this part,” Sir Clinton remarked. “If I’d known that we were in for this sort of thing I think I’d have put on an old suit this morning. Mind your knees on the floor, Inspector. It’s fairly moist.”