“I have one great hope,” he said, “since you share
my captivity, but we must neglect no minor chance. 
Try with your pocket-knife if you can force the lock. 
I am trying to break this one.”

Truth to tell, the idea had not entered my half-dazed mind, but I immediately acted upon my friend’s suggestion, setting to work with the small blade of my knife.  I was so engaged, and, having snapped one blade, was about to open another, when a sound arrested me.  It came from beneath my feet.

“Smith,” I whispered, “listen!”

The scraping and clicking which told of Smith’s efforts ceased.  Motionless, we sat in that humid darkness and listened.

Something was moving beneath the stones of the cellar. 
I held my breath; every nerve in my body was strung up.

A line of light showed a few feet from where we lay.  It widened—­became an oblong.  A trap was lifted, and within a yard of me, there rose a dimly seen head.  Horror I had expected—­and death, or worse.  Instead, I saw a lovely face, crowned with a disordered mass of curling hair; I saw a white arm upholding the stone slab, a shapely arm clasped about the elbow by a broad gold bangle.

The girl climbed into the cellar and placed the lantern on the stone floor.  In the dim light she was unreal—­a figure from an opium vision, with her clinging silk draperies and garish jewelry, with her feet encased in little red slippers.  In short, this was the houri of my vision, materialized.  It was difficult to believe that we were in modern, up-to-date England; easy to dream that we were the captives of a caliph, in a dungeon in old Bagdad.

“My prayers are answered,” said Smith softly.  “She has come to save you.”

“S-sh!” warned the girl, and her wonderful eyes opened widely, fearfully.  “A sound and he will kill us all.”

She bent over me; a key jarred in the lock which had broken my penknife—­ and the collar was off.  As I rose to my feet the girl turned and released Smith.  She raised the lantern above the trap, and signed to us to descend the wooden steps which its light revealed.

“Your knife,” she whispered to me.  “Leave it on the floor.  He will think you forced the locks.  Down!  Quickly!”

Nayland Smith, stepping gingerly, disappeared into the darkness.  I rapidly followed.  Last of all came our mysterious friend, a gold band about one of her ankles gleaming in the rays of the lantern which she carried.  We stood in a low-arched passage.

“Tie your handkerchiefs over your eyes and do exactly as I tell you,” she ordered.

Neither of us hesitated to obey her.  Blind-folded, I allowed her to lead me, and Smith rested his hand upon my shoulder.  In that order we proceeded, and came to stone steps, which we ascended.

“Keep to the wall on the left,” came a whisper.  “There is danger on the right.”

With my free hand I felt for and found the wall, and we pressed forward.  The atmosphere of the place through which we were passing was steamy, and loaded with an odor like that of exotic plant life.  But a faint animal scent crept to my nostrils, too, and there was a subdued stir about me, infinitely suggestive—­mysterious.