Mistress Corbet wrinkled her nose at the damp earthy smell that breathed
out of the dark.
"I am glad I am not a priest," she said. "And I would sooner be buried
dead than alive. And there is a rat there that sorely needs burying."
"My dear lady!" cried the contriver of the passage indignantly, "her
Grace might sleep there herself and take no harm. There is not even the
whisker of a rat."
"It is not the whisker that I mind," said Mary, "it is the rest of him."
Mr. Buxton immediately set his taper down and climbed in.
"You shall see," he said, "and I in my best satin too!"
He was inside the stairs now and lying on his back on the smooth board
that backed them. He sidled himself slowly along towards the wall.
"Press the fourth brick of the fourth row," he said.
"You remember, Father Anthony?"
He had reached now what seemed to be the brick wall against which the
ends of the stairs rested; and that closed that end of the cellars
altogether. Anthony leaned in with a candle, and saw how that part of the
wall against his friend's right side slowly turned into the dark as the
fourth brick was pressed, and a little brick-lined passage appeared
beyond. Mr. Buxton edged himself sideways into the passage, and then
stood nearly upright. It was an excellent contrivance. Even if the
searchers should find the chamber beneath the stairs, which was unlikely,
they would never suspect that it was only a blind to a passage beyond.
The door into the passage consisted of a strong oaken door disguised on
the outside by a facing of brick-slabs; all the hinges were within.
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