ush it back into its place Clinton had gone up
the passage like a man who is flying to escape a hurled javelin.

Exerting all my force to prevent the door from swinging back by keeping
my leg against it, I had just got the coffin into the cell and was going
out, when I heard a shrill cry, and Clinton came tearing back down the
passage.

"I can't get out! The stone has sunk into its place! We are locked in!"
he screamed, and, wild with fear, he plunged headlong into the cell,
upsetting me in his career before I could check him. I sprang back to
the door as it was closing. I was too late. Before I could reach it, it
had shut with a loud clang in obedience to the infernal witchcraft.

"You have done it now," I cried angrily. "Do you see? Why, man, we are
buried alive in this ghastly hole!"

The lantern I had placed just inside the door, and by its dim light, as
I looked at him, I saw the terror of a madman creep into Clinton's eyes.

"Buried alive!" he shouted, with a peal of hysterical laughter. "Yes,
and, Bell, it's your doing; you are a devil in human shape!" With a wild
paroxysm of fury he flung himself upon me. There was the ferocity of a
wild beast in his spring. He upset the lantern and left us in total
darkness.

The struggle was short. We might be buried alive, but I was not going to
die by his hand, and seizing him by the throat I pinned him against the
wall.

[Illustration: "It had shut with a loud clang."
A Master of Mysteries.--Page 86]

"Keep quiet," I shouted. "It is your thundering stupidity that has
caused all this. Stay where you are until I strike a match."

I luckily had some vestas in the little silver box which I always carry
on my watch-chain, and striking one I relit the lantern. Clinton's
paroxysm was over, and sinking to the floor he lay there shivering and
cowering.

It was a terrible situation, and I knew that our only hope was for me to
keep my presence of mind. With a great effort I forced myself to think
calmly over what could be done. To shout for help would have been but a
useless waste of breath.

Suddenly an idea struck me. "Have you got your father's letter?" I cried
eagerly.

"I have," he answered; "it is in my pocket."

My last ray of hope vanished. Our only chance was that if he had left it
at the house some one might discover the letter and come to our rescue
by its instructions. It had been a faint hope, and it disappeared
almost as quickly as it had come to me. Wit