I went up to the library and sat there waiting for Indiman. The man in the areaway waited also.
At half after six Indiman appeared. He, too, had been unsuccessful; I could see it in his face before he spoke. I told him of the suspicious loiterer across the street. Together we kept close watch on the areaway, and after a while the fellow came out and strolled off with what was intended to pass as jaunty indifference. But we were not deceived.
"That fool of a girl has talked," said Indiman. "Looks like it."
"See here, Thorp, that thing in the cellar—we'll have to do something at once."
I nodded.
"The flooring in the coal-bin is brick; it won't be difficult to take up a section large enough for—"
I nodded again.
I shan't forget what we did that night—the stealing down into the echoing cellar—the flickering of the candle-light on the white-washed walls—the sound of the spade clinking against a casual stone.
How we worked! Like slaves under the lash—an actual lash of terror. For we were afraid, frankly and honestly afraid, of what we had done and of what we were doing. I know that the sweat fairly poured off me. My word! but it WAS hot, and there was a fearful significance in the thought that urged us on to even greater exertions.
It had to be done, and at last it was, the bricks neatly replaced and the surplus earth packed away in gunny-sacks to be removed at the first favorable opportunity. Then in the gray dawn we drew ourselves wearily up-stairs, and, separating without a word, went to our rooms. Was it pure, malignant chance that the maid, Mary, passed me on her way down-stairs and glanced, with a curious, shrinking repugnance, at my earth-stained and dusty clothes? I did not care; I was dog-tired and I wanted but one thing—bed. I reached my couch, fell sprawling upon it, and slept for seven hours straight.