“Yes,” the other answered dryly. “But—when were you here last, Stubbs?”
“Not for a twelvemonth, my lord.”
“Leave your candle?”
“No.”
“Then what’s that?” The young man pointed to something that lay in the angle between a stair and the wall.
“God bless my soul!” the lawyer cried. “It’s a candle.”
“And clean. It has not been there a week. Who has been here, my friend?”
Stubbs reflected. “No one with my authority,” he said. “But if the devil himself has been here,” he continued, stoutly recovering himself, “he can have done no harm. I can prove that in five minutes, my lord—if you will kindly hold the light.” He inserted a large key in the lock, and with an effort, he shot back the bolts. He pushed open the door and signed to Lord Audley to enter.
He did so, and Stubbs followed. They stood and looked about them. They were in a whitewashed chamber twelve feet square, clean, bare, empty. The walls gave back the light so that the one candle lit the place perfectly.
“It’s as good as air-tight,” Stubbs said with pride. “And you see, my lord, we swept it as bare as the palm of my hand. I can answer for it that not a shred of paper or a piece of wax was left.”