“Righto! I do the breakin’, and you do the enterin’. Come along!”

Three quarters of an hour later Mr. Millar crawled through a scullery window. It was a tight fit, and there was broken glass about; his clothes sustained some damage. He dusted himself, wondered why a scullery always smelt of cabbage, and proceeded upstairs, where he reconnoitered George Street through a hole in the drawing-room shutters. Miss Silver, in her drab rain-coat and old-fashioned turban toque, was walking slowly along the opposite pavement. She held a newspaper in her hand.

Archie proceeded to the front door and oscillated the brass flap of the letter-box.

Miss Silver crossed the road and rang the bell.

The door was secured by bolts at top and bottom. They creaked a good deal. Archie opened the door with a flourish, and Miss Silver came in. As soon as the door was shut, she turned to Archie as if she were about to speak; then suddenly changed her mind. Instead she folded the newspaper and put it into her bag.

They went together into the drawing-room. The closed shutters made a gloom there. Miss Silver took a torch from the pocket of her rain-coat.

After ten minutes they went to the dining-room, and then up the stairs. About half way to the study Miss Silver stooped and picked up a little piece of torn paper. It was just such a piece as might be torn from the corner of a letter. She flashed the light to and fro, but found nothing more.

The study was not so dark as the drawing-room; there were no shutters here, and the maroon curtains had not been drawn. A light blind reaching to within an inch of the floor screened the long French window.

Archie went over to the window and released the blind. As it left his hand, Miss Silver called to him:

“Mr. Millar-come here.”

He came quickly. He had not thought the placid voice could be shaken. Most undeniably it shook now. “Mr. Millar-look!”

She pointed, and Archie looked. At about the level of his shoulder the woodwork at the side of the door was cracked.

The edge of the jamb showed a small semi-circular furrow, the wall behind, a neat round hole.

Archie gave a faint whistle of dismay.

“A bullet hole, by gum!”

“I think so. I think the bullet’s in the wall. I trust he missed whatever he was aiming at.”

She walked over to the table, stooping on her way to pick up another torn scrap of paper. This one lay near the chair which was drawn close up to the side of the table. She stood for a moment, small grey eyes intent, hands clasped on the old-fashioned reticule she always carried. Then she leaned over the table.

Half a dozen little bits of paper lay amongst Freddy Pelham’s letters, just as they had slipped from Margaret’s hand.

Miss Silver nodded, straightened up, and looked about her. The table stood a couple of yards from the window. She looked across it and saw the garden sloping to the alley-way. The trees had a mournful, drooping look, half their leaves gone, and those that were left to them poor, torn, draggled survivals. She saw the ugly spirals of the iron balustrade guarding the garden stairs. She saw the long window between heavy, maroon curtains, one looped back, the other hanging straight. And she saw a piece of white paper lying at the foot of the straight curtain.

She went over, picked it up, and held it out to Archie.

“Well, Mr. Millar, you were right. They’re here.”

Margaret had stuck her piece of paper on the glass, but as it dried, it had fallen.

Archie read the scrawled pencil message:

“Cellars-C. and M.”

He read it, turned to stare at the hole Freddy Pelham’s bullet had made, and once more whistled softly.

“What’s it mean?”

“We shall doubtless find out. Perhaps you know the way to the cellars. I think we had better go there at once.”

She was through the door before she finished speaking. Archie followed.

At the door leading to the basement Miss Silver found another piece of paper. She coughed approvingly.

“It’s a pleasure to work with anyone so intelligent.”

“I say, that’s awfully nice of you!”

“I was not referring to you, Mr. Millar. Miss Langton must be a highly intelligent person, even for a woman.”

They went down into the basement, and farther down to where three cellar doors opened upon a dark flagged passage.

“Those two always were open,” said Archie. “Freddy liked messin’ about and doin’ a bit of carpentering in this one, and the other’s for coal. The third’s the wine-cellar.” He tried the door. “It’s locked tight.”

He rattled the latch and shouted:

“Hello-ello-ello! Charles! Are you in there? Is anyone in there?”

A booming echo came rolling back along the low roof. It said “There,” and “Charles,” and died. Something fell with a clang.

Miss Silver turned her torch down, picked up a metal bar, and put it into Archie’s hand.

“What is it?”

“Well,” said Miss Silver-she gave a slight cough-“I believe it is called a jemmy-an instrument in use amongst burglars. I, of course, have my reputation to consider. But if you-” She coughed again. “It really seems quite providential-doesn’t it?”

“Heaven helps those who help themselves, in fact,” responded Archie.

Miss Silver proceeded to give him expert advice as to lock-breaking.

The silence of the inner cell had not been stirred. It settled heavily and more heavily still. It was half an hour since Charles had spoken and Margaret answered him. Their torment of thirst had begun. It was long past midday, and hope waned as the light wanes after sunset. Their sun had set. The little light of hope that had remained failed and was forgotten. They were forgotten in a dark, hidden place out of mind.

The first sound was faint. It jarred that settling silence- but so faintly that it might have been some ghostly mirage of sound, causeless and unreal.

Margaret stirred, moved her hand to meet Charles Moray’s hand, and turned her head to say on a whispering breath,

“Charles,-”

His hand pressed hers.

“Did you hear it?”

“Yes.”

“Charles-what was it?”

The silence settled again. That faint sound had reached them when the wine-cellar door gave way with a crash and set all the underground echoes calling.

Miss Silver flashed her torch round the well stocked bins, up to the low roof, down again to the flagged floor. At the far end a cask or two, packing-cases, a shred of white torn paper. She picked it up.

“They’ve been here, Mr. Millar. I think we’ll move those casks.”

On the other side of the casks and of that thick, deadening wall Margaret was listening as she had not listened since Freddy Pelham had left her in the dark alone. She could hear nothing.

But she had heard something. Suppose they came and went away again. The thought pierced to the quick. She tried to call out, but the terror of the thought took away her voice; it failed in a dry throat. She tried to tell Charles to shout. Her hand clung to his.

And suddenly the door swung in. The silence broke into harsh sound. The bolts went loudly back, and the door swung in. The noise was overwhelming. Archie’s shout shook the cellar, and a dancing, flashing ray struck her eyes like a blow. Darkness closed over her.

When she opened her eyes again, someone was giving her water to drink, and it was light. She looked at the light and wondered at it. Grey London light, but how beautiful! She drank again. Water-how lovely! Light-air-water! She drew a long, long breath, and came back from the half way place between dream and waking. She was lying on the sofa in the study. A little woman in a drab rain-coat was holding water to her lips in a cracked breakfast-cup.

Margaret took another lovely sip and sat up. She saw Charles, dusty, blood-stained, unshaven, his face smeared and dirtier than anything she could have imagined. He put down the cup from which he had been drinking, and came to her and kissed her. It didn’t matter how dirty his face was. How lovely! How lovely to be alive-to be together! The most exquisite happiness filled her. She began to cry.