He found her hand, somehow, and tucked his into it, confidingly, and not without an uncertain thrill of satisfaction.
"Come!" she panted. "Come! If they break in—"
Stifled by apprehension, her voice failed her.
They went forward, now less impetuously, for it was very black; and the knocker had fallen still.
"No fear of that," he remarked after a time. "They wouldn't dare break in."
A fluttering whisper answered him: "I don't know. We dare risk nothing."
They seemed to explore, to penetrate acres of labyrinthine chambers and passages, delving deep into the bowels of the earth, like rabbits burrowing in a warren, hounded by beagles.
Above stairs the hush continued unbroken; as if the dumb Genius of the Place had cast a spell of silence on the knocker, or else, outraged, had smitten the noisy disturber with a palsy.
The girl seemed to know her way; whether guided by familiarity or by intuition, she led on without hesitation, Kirkwood blundering in her wake, between confusion of impression, and dawning dismay conscious of but one tangible thing, to which he clung as to his hope of salvation: those firm, friendly fingers that clasped his own.
It was as if they wandered on for an hour; probably from start to finish their flight took up three minutes, no more. Eventually the girl stopped, releasing his hand. He could hear her syncopated breathing before him, and gathered that something was wrong. He took a step forward.