cold. A cry, muffled, far away and full of anguish; a sobbing cry,
which suddenly ceased.

It was the voice of Stephen. He instinctively knew where it came
from; the crypt. Only for the experience he had had of her desire to
enter the place, he would never have suspected that it was so close
to him. He ran towards the corner where commenced the steps leading
downward. As he reached the spot a figure came rushing up the steps.
A boy in Eton jacket and wide collar, careless, pale, and agitated.
It was Leonard Everard. Harold seized him as he came.

'Where is Stephen?' he cried in a quick, low voice.

'In the vault below there. She dropped her light and then took mine,
and she dropped it too. Let me go! Let me go!' He struggled to get
away; but Harold held him tight.

'Where are the matches?'

'In my pocket. Let me go! Let me go!'

'Give me them--this instant!' He was examining the frightened boy's
waistcoat pockets as he spoke. When he had got the matches he let
the boy go, and ran down the steps and through the open door into the
crypt, calling out as he came:

'Stephen! Stephen dear, where are you? It is I--Harold!' There was
no response; his heart seemed to grow cold and his knees to weaken.
The match spluttered and flashed, and in the momentary glare he saw
across the vault, which was not a large place, a white mass on the