Suffocating? Yes; there could be no doubt about it! Up to this, James O'Donnell had forgotten that the strong-room was almost air-tight, and that the air required by him and the lamp was about what should have been exhausted since he entered the room. For years he had been familiar with the great safe, and it had never before occurred to him that to shut any man up in it for a lengthened period would be almost certainly death. Was he to die of suffocation, and under the circumstances of his present position? Already his thoughts were becoming obscured. There was the revolver gleaming at him from the drawer. But his thoughts had taken a circuitous route; and although he knew that a short time ago the revolver had formed the main portion of an important design, he now could not connect it clearly or coherently with that intention. He was altogether occupied with the thought of suffocation, and but partially able to concern his mind with any other idea. How would it be if he died here, and of the death that threatened him? How would it be? He could not answer. He did not know. He felt a tightness across his forehead, an oppression upon his chest. The tightness and the oppression were little more than uncomfortable. He had scarcely a pain. In fact, he felt a pleasant languor out of which it would be a decided inconvenience to raise himself. Then for a moment it came forcibly home to him that he was dying, and would die before succour of any kind could reach him. The motives which had led him to come there at such an hour, and which induced him to shut himself up and cut off all retreat, were now obscure. By a great effort he could dimly perceive that something was wrong with his business concerns. What was that? A noise without! A noise at the other side of the heavy iron door. Who or what could make a noise outside there in the private office at such an hour? It was within the duty of no one to be in his private office at this hour. No one could now be there for any honest purpose. The propinquity of the material sounds enabled them to appeal to his reason more forcibly than the murmur of the mill or the river, or the tumultuous, distracting echoes of disaster beating through his brain. All at once the sounds, his physical and financial position, converged and were focussed upon a single relic of memory. Long ago, in some book he had read of a famous cave called "The Cave of Dogs," somewhere in the south of Europe, where, when men and dogs entered together, the dogs were suffocated by the exhalation lying close to the ground, while the men, because of their greater stature, moved on unharmed. He knew at this brief moment of active memory the same substance which now threatened his life proved fatal to these dogs. If he now raised himself higher in his suffocating chamber, was there any likelihood of prolonging his life by seeking air as high up as possible in the room? It is true he had no great desire to prolong his life. He had by this time forgotten he had had any desire to destroy it. Yes, he would see if any virtue of life lay in the air above his head. He mounted upon the deed-boxes and thrust his head up. Now he had pains and a tingling sensation, but the dimness and dulness of the intellect gradually diminished. The noise was repeated without. What could it be? His mind had by this time become comparatively clear. He now knew he had come to that place for the purpose of destroying his life, with the intention of obliterating the world from his perception simultaneously with the destruction of his fortune. But what were those noises which again broke in upon his ear? Now he remembered. There was a considerable sum of money in cash in the strong-room. Some thieves had got scent of this fact, and were now in the outer place with designs upon the gold and notes lying in the safe? If these wretches broke in when he was dead and carried off the money, and his dead body was found later there (his head was so stupid, that he could not see exactly what the inference would be), would it not seem in some way or other that he had applied the two thousand pounds to his own purposes--given them to his wife or son, say--and then destroyed himself? Although he felt relieved from the suffocation he had endured in the lower air, he knew now that this relief could not last long, and that the air he now breathed would soon become as tainted as that which he had lately left. What should he do? To die in the midst of his commercial troubles--to die, leaving behind him an unblemished reputation, and to die the seeming thief of a paltry two thousand pounds, were widely different things. And yet he did not appear to have much room for choice, for should he continue as he now was and make no sign, he would, beyond doubt, die of suffocation; and if he made any sign and these men had the means to break in, and did break in before assistance came, they would no doubt sacrifice his life rather than forego their design of plunder. He paused for a moment in thought. Then, holding his breath, he stepped down, took the revolver out of the safe, and got up on the deed-boxes once more. "I shall sell my life dearly," he said to himself, "if they force that door." Standing bolt upright on the deed-boxes, he fixed his eyes steadily on the only means of ingress to that room. "It is not likely," he thought, "there are more than two or three of these ruffians, and I have six shots here. But how long will this air last? How long is it possible for a man to live on the eighteen inches more air I have gained since I mounted these boxes? For a man and--a lamp? I don't want the lamp. I have seen here all I desire to see. If they break in I will have no difficulty in seeing them, for my eyes will be accustomed to impenetrable darkness, while they must carry a light of some kind, which will enable me to make them out. I and the lamp. It is as though there was food in a ship for a certain time for two people. If the one dies the other will have the double share. If the lamp or I die now the survivor will have the double share. In this case the choice is easily made." He filled his lungs and blew down the chimney of the lamp. The darkness of the strong-room was now so intense that it was absolutely impossible to see any object, however large or however near. For all the purposes of sight the space enclosed by the four walls was an absolute void. The old man, of course, knew he was standing on two deed-cases in the strong-room of his business place; that he held a revolver in his hand; that there were burglars without and money within, and that he was threatened with suffocation. The question now was, whether they would succeed in bursting open that door before the rising tide of poisonous gas reached his nostrils. The lamp being now extinguished, and there being some ventilation to the safe, the deadly gas, which would be sufficient to destroy life, was rising at a greatly diminished rate. A little of the heavy carbonic acid succeeded in exuding through the lower portion of the slight spaces between the door, threshold, and jambs; a little of the pure exterior air infiltrated through the upper portion of the slight spaces between the door, lintel, and jambs. James O'Donnell had no means of knowing at what rate the deadly gas was now rising, or whether it had ceased to rise at all, or whether it was declining. It was not impossible, nay, it was not improbable, that the deadly vapour might rise no higher than it had stood when he put out the lamp. It would not do for him to make the least noise, for the gas might still be rising, and in case he made a noise the burglars might be scared away for a time, only to return when he had succumbed to the deadly vapour, break open the room, and so blast his character for ever. It was now necessary for him to stand bolt upright in that ebon darkness, with his eyes fixed on what he knew to be the position occupied by the door. Then, as soon as anyone opened that door, it would be his duty to fire, and to fire with as deadly an effect as possible, for he was an old man, no longer strong or active, and could not hope to succeed against even one man who would undertake such an enterprise, and the chances were there would be more than one in this. He had no means of computing time. In the disordered condition of his mind it was impossible to tell how the minutes went by. Now for some minutes the sounds in the outer room had ceased. Any moment they might be renewed. There would, of course, be a sound of hammering, although the sound would be very dull. He had once seen a burglar's hammer. It was made of lead, the face of it being covered with leather soaked in oil. The wedges used were always of wood. But no matter how muffled the blow, or how little noise the progress of the wedge made, the sound could not escape his ear. He took out his watch and listened to it. He counted the ticks, but found they conveyed no idea of time. The very sound of the watch confused his senses, and threw him into new perplexities. Holding the watch to his ear, and the revolver in his right hand down by his side, he stood motionless for what seemed to him a very long time. It was strange, but still he heard no sounds of hammering. Could it be that the first effect of the poisonous gas upon him had been to disturb his senses, and that the noises he fancied he heard had been the offspring of imagination? Ah! They were beginning at last. He caught the sound of their first attempts. He knew it would take a considerable time to break in that door, and mentally he groaned at the notion of delay in his present perilous condition. Suddenly he started as though he had been shot. The door swung open rapidly on its hinges. The full light of the office sprang with dazzling effect into the darkness where he stood. He was paralysed. "Seize him!" cried a voice from without. Then all at once, and before he had time to raise the arm in which he held the weapon, he was in the clutches of two men, who dragged him out ruthlessly into the glare of the office, and then started back from him. "It is the master himself!" James O'Donnell staggered for a moment, dazed by the gaslight and the perception that the men who held him were no burglars, but the watchmen of the place, and that behind the door, as it now stood fully open with the day-key in it, was the manager of all his business, Corcoran. When the watchmen made up their minds what to do they sent for Mr. Corcoran. He brought the key with him; and then all three, having taken off their boots, stole into the private office, and finding no clue there, the manager, with little hope of discovering anything, put his day-key into the lock, turned the bolt swiftly, and, to his astonishment, pulled open the door. His astonishment rose to perfect amazement when he found a man inside, and when that man turned out to be no less a person than James O'Donnell.

END OF VOL. I.

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CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.