Gerald was alone for some time; he remained in the same position.

He was partly stunned by what had happened. It had all taken place so rapidly, and so unexpectedly, and he feared—greatly—the danger ahead.

Man to man, he would have feared nothing. He was not a coward.

But, as it was, he had a murderer to deal with, and his opponent had the keys.

He considered Loide's character, and he calculated that his own life was a small thing in the lawyers estimation. It was an unwholesome thought.

He turned his head slowly, and then very quickly, for he saw a glimmer of light. It was from the barred window.

The moon was shining, and would soon o'ertop the trees he could see silhouetted on what was his horizon.

He thought of escape—naturally. But it was a poor thought; he anticipated no success.

A point in his favor was his early athletic training. With finger or foothold he would have been a factor to reckon with in an attempt to get out.

Running the whole length of what was his roof were the supporting beams of the floor boards above. They afforded no grip if he got there—and he had to reach them.

He looked at the window. If he ran and sprang high enough, he would be able to grip the bars.

He essayed it—failed at first, but was clinging successfully the second time.

The width between the bars was not great enough for him to put his head through, but he threw up his left leg and hooked the toe of his boot so that he could rest there, and look round without the heavy strain on his arms.

In the semi-darkness he looked out on what appeared to be a long garden with high trees at the bottom.

Behind those trees he knew the moon was coming up, and that presently that awful darkness would be ended.

The rafters above him—they were his only hope of escape.

By means of the window he could reach those beams, and possibly the trap-door, but he feared—horribly feared—that his fingers would slip from the pieces of square wood, which it seemed impossible to grip.

He tried it, however. He got both legs up and through the rails till the thickness of his thighs prevented further protrusion.

He sat there with his calves out of window, resting a moment, and getting ready for his test of strength.

Then, his hands at the top of the bars, and his feet resting at their base, he stretched up first one hand and then the other.

He gripped easily the long timbers—gripped them easily while his weight was supported by his feet, but the moment he hung—well, that same moment he dropped to the ground.

In his fall he did not hurt himself at all—he was prepared for it.

He had known, even while testing it, that the task was a hopeless one; there was nothing to grip in the strict sense of the word; all he could do was to pinch the wood with his fingers, and the difficulty of that operation with one hundred and forty pounds depending is apparent.

He felt his way over to the beds, and lay down; his exertions had fatigued him a bit.

He lay very quietly, thinking—thinking of the possibility of escape, and realizing more and more how hopeless the idea was, how secure was the trap he was in.

He heard a sound and started up—the sound ceased. He called out:

"Who's there?"

And there was a scampering, scraping, scratching noise. What it was burst on him at once. He muttered:

"Rats!"

He was not afraid of them. His limbs were free.

He had read accounts of those rodents attacking living men, but he had looked upon them as mere fiction. He was content to think that he could beat them off if his voice failed to frighten them.

The moon o'ertopped the trees, and he was thankful. The light was a great comfort.

It shone into the cellar, and he lay there on the beds as in a patch of lime-light, the shadow of the bars running as great dark lines across the floor.

He put his hands under his head, and lay quite still, looking up at the moon. Presently a shadow was cast—there was something at the window!

He did not move, and then he saw what it was—a cat—a common or garden cat!

A well cared for, plump, collared member of the feline race—he could see the silver part of the leather collar in the moon's beams.

The cat looked in between the bars and listened. Then she stealthily ran or dropped, after the manner of her kind, down the wall on to the floor.

It was evident from her manner that this was not her first visit. The squeaking and scuttling of the rats had ceased as by magic.

The fear they had not felt for the man, they instinctively felt for the cat—their natural enemy.

Quite idly, without moving, Gerald said:

"Puss, puss; poor pussie."

The cat paused in her stealthy walk across the cellar floor. Gerald spoke again.

Perhaps she was reassured by his voice, for she did not run away when he stretched out his hand and scratched her neck and head; indeed, she came closer. Evidently Gerald had found her soft spot.

Another shadow! Another cat! Then another!

They followed the example of the first and dropped down—it was evidently a happy hunting ground for the neighboring cats.

Gerald was rather pleased than otherwise—they acted as a kind of police, so far as the rats were concerned.

The moon, as it climbed its way along the heavens, lighted up different parts of the cellar, and presently in looking round a ray of hope entered Gerald's heart—for there, on a nail in the wall, was a coil of wire!

There were possibilities in it.

He walked to the coil and took it down, and his heart sank again.

It was the thread-like wire used in bottling, and absolutely useless as a means of escape.

Then suddenly a thought occurred to him, which sent the blood rushing to his head, and set his pulse and heart beating faster.

"My God!" he said, "there's a chance yet."

From his breast pocket he drew his note-book and tore three leaves out. In the light of the moon with a pencil he wrote:

"That ought to be strong enough," he muttered, as he reread it. "I don't know that I can add to it in any way."

Then he made two copies of the document, and folded all three into flat, long-shaped tapers.

He then broke off a couple of yards of the wire, and called a cat to him.

Scratching the cat, and fastening the note to the collar with the wire, was not altogether an easy task, but he accomplished it. Then he effected the same thing round the necks of the other two.

One had no collar at all, and Gerald had to make one with the wire. He succeeded, and then one by one he pitched the cats up to the window.

They looked round with ruffled fur at this indignity after such soothing treatment as they had been experiencing, and probably in their hearts thought that Gerald was no gentleman.

They evidenced this thought of him by walking away and leaving him.

He climbed up to the window bars, and watched them as well as he could.

They lingered, probably with a view to the formation of a choir; but Gerald said "Shoo!" and they fled. As they did so, he heard a clock striking.

Counting the strokes, he found it was ten o'clock. He had been in the cellar an hour only, and it seemed days.

He remembered the period of his residence in suburban lodgings. He remembered the care of the proprietors of cats then, how before going to bed they would patiently call "puss, puss, puss" at their back doors, in order to prevent their pets spending a night out.

He prayed earnestly that the owners of the feline trinity he had just let loose were affectionately disposed towards their cats. He hoped great things from those messages.

If not to-night, surely in the morning one of the three must bear fruit. He prayed so with all his heart and soul.