David Arden entered this door, and found himself under a vaulted roof of brick. These were the chambers, for there was at least two, which the baron termed his catacombs. Along both walls of the narrow apartment were iron doors, in deep recesses, that looked like the huge ovens of an ogre, sunk deep in the wall, and the baron looked himself not an unworthy proprietor. The baron had the General's faculty of remembering faces and names.
“Monsieur Yelland Mace? Yes, I will show you him; he is among ze dead.”
“Dead?”
“Ay, zis right side is dead—all zese.”
“Do you mean,” says David Arden, “literally that Yelland Mace is no longer living?”
“A, B, C, D, E, F, G,” mutters the baron, slowly pointing his finger along the right wall.
“I beg your pardon, Baron, but I don't think you heard me,” said David Arden.
“Perfectly, excuse me: H, I, J, K, L, M—M. I will show you now, if you desire it, Yelland Mace; you shall see him now, and never behold him more. Do you wish very much?”
“Intensely—most intensely!” said Uncle David earnestly.