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.
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