"Don't think!" said Gerald, hastily. "Great mistake to think; wastes the tissues awfully. Action first, thought afterward! aphorism! Or if you must indulge in the baneful pursuit, think how much poor Jerry wants you. Poor Jerry! child of misfortune!"
"Is that the way you get everything you want?" said Margaret, laughing, as she followed him half-reluctantly down-stairs.
"One way; there are others. This is the best, since it procures me your company. See, now! in this niche here, behind the big picture!"
He passed his hand along a panel; it swung back, revealing blackness.
Margaret stared. "I never knew that was a door!" she said. "Mr. Merryweather, do you know, I think the person who built this house must have been a smuggler, a magician, and a detective, all in one."
"Fine combination!" said Gerald. "I should like to have known the old codg—I mean gentleman. No deep mystery here, though, beyond the secret door. He did love secret doors, that ancestor of yours. He may have been an architect, and have thought door-handles unsightly, as they are. But see!"
They were now standing in a deep recess, and he waved his candle to and fro. "This would appear to have been originally used as a kind of store-room, or drying-room. See those hooks; probably for hams—if not for hanging," he added. "If you prefer tragedy, Miss Montfort, you shall have it. There is room for ten persons to hang here, without touching. Their ghastly upturned faces, their blood-stained robes, glimmering spectral white in the—"
"Oh, don't!" said Margaret. "You really frighten me. Yes, they must be for hams; now I think of it, I have heard Frances speak of the drying-closet. This wall is warm; it must be close against the kitchen chimney."
"Jerusalem!" exclaimed Gerald. "Here are steps, Miss Montfort. Stone steps, leading down to a trap-door. Shall I help you down, or—no, I will go alone. When I open the door, a hollow groan will be heard, and the clank of iron fetters. Would you rather have me descend to Hades with a loud squeak, or shall a headless spectre arise, grinning and—beg pardon! anatomy at fault; grinning requires a head. That's the way! my genius is always checked in its soaring flight, and pulled back to earth by idiot facts."
Running on thus, Gerald descended the stone steps, Margaret following to their top, timidly. Sure enough, there was a trap-door at the bottom, with a ring in it; a perfectly orthodox trap-door, suitable for the Arabian Nights or anything else. Gerald took hold of the ring, prepared for a vigorous pull; then paused, and looked at his companion. "I hear voices!" he said. "Hark!"