Secure in the feeling that no one else could
be in this outer passage, and completely baffled, I ventured to strike
a match. The tiny yellow flame, ere it quickly flickered out in some
mysterious draft, revealed an iron band to the left of the door, with
slight protuberance, resembling the button of an electric-bell. This
was the only semblance to a lock, and I was in doubt whether it would
prove an alarm, or some ingenuous [Transcriber's note: ingenious?]
spring. There was nothing for it, however, but to try the experiment,
and face the result.
Almost convinced that the pressure of my finger would ring an electric
bell, I drew my revolver, and crouched low, prepared for any emergency,
as I pressed the metal button. To my surprise and relief the only
thing to occur was the slow opening of the door inward, a dim gleam of
light becoming visible through the widening crack. The movement was
deliberate and noiseless, but I dropped upon hands and knees in the
deepest remaining shadow and peered anxiously into the dimly revealed
interior. It was a basement room, half the width of the kitchen
overhead, I should judge; the walls of crude masonry, the floor of
brick, the ceiling, festooned by cobwebs, of rough-hewn beams. The
light, flickering and dim, came from a half-burned candle in an iron
holder screwed against the wall, revealing a small table, two chairs,
one without a back, and four narrow sleeping berths made of rough
boards.
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