The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,—the cellar, just referred to,—was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female, assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. The thought did not occur to her, for all thought had flown out of her head. Even Melusine, armed with special knowledge, and the enthusiastic assistance of Jack Kimble’s strong arm, had taken almost half a day to locate the place. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. Somehow logic could not explain her. "Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly. "Take off these chains, Rowland," said Lady Trafford, "instantly, I command you. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. A couple of gilt straight-backed chairs only.
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