But I was never so much a dreamer, as a man of action, and the necessity of active service forced me to cast aside such thoughts almost instantly. There was work, and danger, ahead, and I welcomed both eagerly. This was the way to forget. Aye! and the way to serve. I felt the revolver in my pocket, took it out and made sure it was in readiness; then advanced cautiously toward the house. The hall was empty, and so was the front room. The latter appeared desolate and grim in its disorder and dirt. My thought centered on that picture of Judge Henley hanging against the further wall. Perhaps it had not moved; the supposition that it did might have been an illusion, produced by some flaw in the mirror opposite, or by a freak of imagination. Yet I could never be satisfied until I learned absolutely what was concealed behind that heavy gilded frame. There was mystery to this house, and perhaps here I had already stumbled upon the secret. I opened the door leading to the rear, silently, and listened. There were voices talking at a distance, two women, one a pleasant contralto, the other cracked and high pitched. The lady was doing her part; I must do mine. I closed the door gently, and stole over toward the picture, half afraid of my task, yet nerving myself for the ordeal.
A black haircloth sofa, with broad mahogany arm, offered two easy steps, enabling me to tip the heavy frame sufficiently so as to peer behind. The one glance was sufficient. Underneath was an opening in the wall, much less in width than the picture, yet ample for the passage of a crouched body. The arm of the sofa made egress comparatively easy, while the frame of the picture, though appearing heavy and substantial, was in reality of light wood, and presented no obstacle to an active man. The passage was black, and I thrust my head and shoulders in, striving to discern something of its nature. For possibly three feet I could trace the floor, but beyond that point it seemed to disappear into impenetrable darkness. This line of change was so distinct that I surmised at once it marked a descent to a lower level, either by ladder or stairs. Well, this would benefit me, rather than otherwise, for if anyone was concealed therein it would be down below, where the light streaming into the upper passage, as I pressed back the frame to gain room for my body, would be unnoticed. There was no hesitancy as to what I must do. Now I had discovered this secret passage it must be thoroughly explored. The safest way was to burrow through the dark, trusting to hands and feet for safety, and prepared for any encounter. Whoever might be hidden away there would certainly possess some light, sufficient for any warning I needed. Every advantage would remain with me concealed by darkness.
If I felt any premonition of fear it was not serious enough to delay progress, nor did I pause to consider the possible danger. Wherever Coombs had gone, he was not likely to remain absent for long, nor could I expect Mrs. Henley to remain with Sallie a moment longer than she deemed necessary. This was my opportunity and must be utilized promptly. Standing on the sofa arm I found little difficulty in pressing my body forward into the aperture, until, extending at full length, the picture settled noiselessly back into place against the wall, excluding all light. After listening intently, fearful lest the slight scraping might have been overheard, I arose to a crouching position, able to feel both the sides and top of the tunnel with my fingers. Inch by inch, silently, my soft breathing the only noticeable sound, I worked forward, anxiously exploring for the break in the floor, which I knew to be only a few feet distance. Even then I reached it unaware of its proximity, experiencing a sudden, unpleasant shock as my extended hand groped about touching nothing tangible.
I was some time determining the exact nature of what was before me. There were no stairs, nor did any shafts of a ladder protrude above the floor level. Only as I lay flat, and felt cautiously across from wall to wall, could I determine what led below. All was black as a well, as noiseless as a grave, yet there was a ladder exactly fitting the space, spiked solidly into the flooring. My groping fingers could reach two of the rungs, and they felt sound and strong. With face outward I trusted myself to their support, and began the descent slowly, pausing between each step to listen, and gripping the side-bars tightly. The blackness and silence, combined with what I anticipated discovering somewhere in those depths below, set my nerves tingling, yet I felt cool, and determined to press on. Indeed, deep in my heart I welcomed the adventure, even hoped it might end in some encounter serious enough to arouse me to new thoughts—especially did I yearn to learn something definite about Philip Henley. This to me was now the one matter of importance; to be assured that he was living or dead. Nothing else greatly mattered, for nothing could again efface from my memory the woman he had called wife. Right or wrong, I knew she held me captive; even there, groping blindly in that darkness, every nerve strained to its utmost, my thought was with her, and her face arose before my imagination. Unexpectedly, unexplainably love had come into my life—the very love I had laughed at in others had made me captive. And I was glad of it, reckless still as to what it might portend.
I counted twelve rungs going down, and then felt stone flags beneath my feet, although the walls on either side, as I explored them with my hands, were still of closely matched wood. The passage, now high enough to permit of my standing erect, led toward the rear of the house, presenting no obstacle other than darkness, until I came up suddenly against a heavy wooden door completely barring further progress. As near as I could figure I must be already directly beneath the kitchen, and close in against the south wall. No sound reached me, however, from above, nor could I, with ear against the slight crack, distinguish any movement beyond the barrier. Cautious fingering revealed closely matched hard wood, studded thickly with nail heads, but no keyhole or latch. Secure in the feeling that no one else could be in this outer passage, and completely baffled, I ventured to strike a match. The tiny yellow flame, ere it quickly flickered out in some mysterious draft, revealed an iron band to the left of the door, with slight protuberance, resembling the button of an electric-bell. This was the only semblance to a lock, and I was in doubt whether it would prove an alarm, or some ingenuous [Transcriber's note: ingenious?] spring. There was nothing for it, however, but to try the experiment, and face the result.
Almost convinced that the pressure of my finger would ring an electric bell, I drew my revolver, and crouched low, prepared for any emergency, as I pressed the metal button. To my surprise and relief the only thing to occur was the slow opening of the door inward, a dim gleam of light becoming visible through the widening crack. The movement was deliberate and noiseless, but I dropped upon hands and knees in the deepest remaining shadow and peered anxiously into the dimly revealed interior. It was a basement room, half the width of the kitchen overhead, I should judge; the walls of crude masonry, the floor of brick, the ceiling, festooned by cobwebs, of rough-hewn beams. The light, flickering and dim, came from a half-burned candle in an iron holder screwed against the wall, revealing a small table, two chairs, one without a back, and four narrow sleeping berths made of rough boards. This was all, except a coat dangling from a beam, and a small hand-hatchet lying on the floor. There was, in the instant I had to view these things, no semblance of movement, or suggestion of human presence. Assured of this, although holding myself alert and ready, I slipped through the opening. Even as I stood there, uncertain, and staring about, a sharp draught of air extinguished the candle, and I heard the snap of the lock as the door behind blew back into position. About me was the black silence of a grave.
CHAPTER XIX
A CHAMBER OF HORROR
I backed against the wall, crouching low, revolver in hand, scarcely venturing to breathe, listening intently for the slightest sound to break the intense silence. My heart beat like a trip-hammer, and there were beads of cold perspiration on my face. The change had occurred so swiftly as to leave me quaking like a coward at the unknown terrors of the dark. Yet almost within the instant I gripped my nerves, comprehending all that had occurred, and confident of my own safety. There must be another opening into this underground den—one leading to the outer air—judging from that sudden and powerful suction. The very atmosphere I breathed had a freshness to it, inconceivable in such a place otherwise. With the first return of intelligence my mind gripped certain facts, and began to reason out the situation. That sudden sweep of air could only have originated in the opening of some other barrier—a door no doubt leading directly to the outside. I had seen no occupant of the room; without question it was deserted at my entrance. Yet someone had been there, and not long before, as was evidenced by the burning candle. Nor, by that same token, did this same mysterious party expect to be absent for any length of time. Apparently I had intruded at the very moment of his departure. Wherever that second passage might be, the former occupant of this underground den had evidently entered it previous to my opening the inner door. Still unaware of my presence he had unfastened some other barrier, and the resultant draught had extinguished the candle, and blown shut the door at my back. This seemed so clearly the truth that I laughed grimly behind clinched teeth. The solution was easy; I had but to discover the extinguished candle, relight it, search out the second passage, and waylay the fellow when he returned unsuspicious of danger.