justice tilted farther and farther; as he clutched wildly at the
table, the table began to slide upon him, and with an uproar of
cracking timber, table, chairs, magistrates, clerks, together, in one
burial blent, were shot downwards into the cellarage.

The Inspector--a tall man--staggering to his feet as the table slid
from him into the chasm, leapt and clutched a crazy chandelier that
depended above him. His weight tore it bodily from the ceiling, with
a torrential downrush of dust and plaster, sweeping him over the edge
of the gulf and overwhelming the Trudgians, husband and wife, on the
brink of it.

At this moment the constable, fresh from locking up Thomas Edwards
below, returned, put his head in at the door, gasped at sight of a
devastation which had swallowed up every human being, and with great
presence of mind, ran as hard as he could pelt for the hamlet of High
Lanes, half a mile away, to summon help.

Now the Inspector, as it happened, was unhurt. Picking himself up,
digging his heels into the moraine of plaster, and brushing the grit
from his eyes, he had the pleasure of recognising Lord Rattley, the
Parson, Mr. Humphry Felix-Williams (son of Sir Felix), and Mr. Batty,
as they scrambled forth successively, black with dust but unhurt,
save that the Parson had received a slight scalp-wound. Then Mr.
Humphry caught sight of a leg clothed in paternal shepherd's-plaid,
and tugged at it until Sir Felix was restored, choking, to the light
of day--or rather, to the Cimmerian gloom of the cellarage, in which
an unexpected figure now confronted them.

It was the prisoner, Thomas Edwards. A collapsing beam had torn away