"Alas!" said my wife, "the secret chamber is where we keep the jam."

She smiled subtly at me and then winningly at the inspector as she
turned towards him.

"Step this way, please," she continued.

I caught the idea at once and, blessing the quick wit of woman,
followed in the victim's wake, ready to close the secret panel behind
him and leave him to a lingering death.

My wife slid open the trap, turning with a triumphant smile as she did
so, and I saw at once that the death of anyone shut up inside would be
a lot more lingering than I had imagined, for the place seemed full of
jam. I was surprised.

"Can I be going to eat all that?" I thought; and life seemed suddenly
a very beautiful thing.

The inspector ran a hungry eye over it all, and if he had tried to
clamber inside for a closer inspection I should not have given him the
quick push I had planned. I should have held him back by his coat. My
own way of testing the amount of jam which my wife had made was not
for the likes of him.

"About a hundred-and-fifty pounds," he said at last.

"Just a little over," nodded my wife.