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 been a final confession of failure. He made for the pantry door that he had noticed—intending to hide until the alarm had subsided—and when he plucked the door open, he found himself at the head of cellar steps. He went down them swiftly by the light of the pocket lamp, and stood waiting at the bottom, in the darkness, looking up, listening breathlessly, ready to retreat further if he heard any one coming. He was enjoying it like a game. In case he was caught, he had a story ready, to the effect that he had been too hungry to sleep, so he had sneaked downstairs to smouch something from the pantry.

In the cool underground silence, he found that not only could he hear the growling dog as clearly as before, but he could hear much more clearly the distant voice calling, “Be quiet, sir! Be quiet! What has got into that dog to-night?”

He flashed a furtive light around him; he was in a little food cellar of hanging shelves and larder cupboards. He saw an open door