nst the dank wall, and by its momentary glare perceived that the
candle had been left in the tomb. This would serve him in examining the
fastenings of the vault. If he could force the inner door by any means,
and reach the grating, of which he had an indistinct recollection, he
might hope to make himself heard. But the oaken door was immovable, as
solid as the wall itself, into which it fitted air-tight. Even if he had
had the requisite tools, there were no fastenings to be removed: the
hinges were set on the outside.

Having ascertained this, he replaced the candle on the floor, and leaned
against the wall thoughtfully, watching the blue fan of flame that
wavered to and fro, threatening to detach itself from the wick. "At all
events," he thought, "the place is ventilated." Suddenly Philip sprang
forward and extinguished the light. His existence depended on that
candle!

He had read somewhere, in some account of shipwreck, how the survivors
had lived for days upon a few candles which one of the passengers had
insanely thrown into the long-boat. And here he had been burning away
his very life.

By the transient illumination of one of the tapers, he looked at his
watch. It had stopped at eleven,--but at eleven that day, or the
preceding night? The funeral, he knew, had left the church at ten. How
many hours had passed since then? Of what duration had been his swoon?
Alas! it was no longer possible for him to measure those hours which
crawl like snails by the wretched, and fly like swallows over the happy.

He picked up the candle, and seated himself on the stone steps. He was a
sanguine man, this Wentworth, but, as he weighed the chances of escape,
the prospect did not seem encouraging. Of course he would be missed. His
disappearance under the circumstances would surely alarm his friends;
they would instigate a search for him; but who would think of searching
for a live man in the cemetery of Montmartre? The Prefect of Police
would set a hundred intelligences at work to find him; the Seine might
be dragged, _les miserables_ turned over at the dead-house; a minute
description of him would be in every detective's pocket; and he--in M.
Dorine's family tomb!

Yet, on the other hand, it was here he was last seen; from this point a
keen detective would naturally work up the case. Then might not the
undertaker return for the candlestick, probably not left by design? Or,
again, might not M. Dorine send fresh wreaths of flowe