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