‘Go below,’ says Fenwick; ‘I’ll follow.’
Walter looks down, hesitating. But when the light is thrown that way, and he observes that there are steps leading into the obscurity, he takes the lead. The descent seems endless; for he moves slowly, as Fenwick, coming after him, throws the light upon him. Walter hears the hard breathing of the detective, and it sounds so strange in the stillness that he holds his own breath to listen. Suddenly the light from the lantern falls upon something which glitters on the ground on all sides.
‘Gold!’ cries Walter. His feet touch the ground. He stoops and picks up a handful of sovereigns. ‘The place is a vault, and it is paved with gold.—What’s that?’ He points to something in one corner like a human form.
The detective steps forward and bends down, throwing the light upon a ghastly wrinkled face. The small eyes glitter like the gold, as though they had caught the reflection, and the long lean fingers are clutching sovereigns and raking them up. Fenwick touches the miser on the shoulder. ‘What is all this?’ asks he. ‘Have you lost your senses?’
The old man utters a cry of distress which has in it a ring of madness.
‘Speak to him, my lad,’ says Fenwick. ‘He will perhaps recognise your voice.’
Walter kneels and takes the old miser’s hand. ‘Mr Monk,’ says he, ‘do you know me? I am Walter Tiltcroft, your friend.’
Silas Monk looks up, bursts into a wild fit of laughter, and then falls back senseless.
The detective lifts the old man in his strong arms as though handling a child. ‘Ascend the ladder!’ cries he quickly to Walter, ‘and show a light; not a moment must be lost in getting the old man home.’