certainty I possessed no assurance.  I thought I had read a deeper meaning in her eyes, enough to yield a flash of hope, but nothing more substantial.  And now—­now even this must be rubbed out.  She was not the kind to ever compromise with duty, nor to pretend.  No love for me, even if it had already begun to blossom in her secret heart, would make her disloyal to sacred vows.  I knew that, and deep down in my own consciousness, honored her the more, even while I struggled against the inevitable.  Yesterday I might have spoken the words of passion on my lips, but now they were sealed, and I dare not even whisper them to myself, yet it was out of this very depth of impossibility that I came to know love in its entirety, and realize what Viola Henley already was to me.

But I was never so much a dreamer, as a man of action, and the necessity of active service forced me to cast aside such thoughts almost instantly.  There was work, and danger, ahead, and I welcomed both eagerly.  This was the way to forget.  Aye! and the way to serve.  I felt the revolver in my pocket, took it out and made sure it was in readiness; then advanced cautiously toward the house.  The hall was empty, and so was the front room.  The latter appeared desolate and grim in its disorder and dirt.  My thought centered on that picture of Judge Henley hanging against the further wall.  Perhaps it had not moved; the supposition that it did might have been an illusion, produced by some flaw in the mirror opposite, or by a freak of imagination.  Yet I could never be satisfied until I learned absolutely what was concealed behind that heavy gilded frame.  There was mystery to this house, and perhaps here I had already stumbled upon the secret.  I opened the door leading to the rear, silently, and listened.  There were voices talking at a distance, two women, one a pleasant contralto, the other cracked and high pitched.  The lady was doing her part; I must do mine.  I closed the door gently, and stole over toward the picture, half afraid of my task, yet nerving myself for the ordeal.

A black haircloth sofa, with broad mahogany arm, offered two easy steps, enabling me to tip the heavy frame sufficiently so as to peer behind.  The one glance was sufficient.  Underneath was an opening in the wall, much less in width than the picture, yet ample for the passage of a crouched body.  The arm of the sofa made egress comparatively easy, while the frame of the picture, though appearing heavy and substantial, was in reality of light wood, and presented no obstacle to an active man.  The passage was black, and I thrust my head and shoulders in, striving to discern something of its nature.  For possibly three feet I could trace the floor, but beyond that point it seemed to disappear into impenetrable darkness.  This line of change was so distinct that I surmised at once it marked a descent to a lower level, either by ladder or stairs.  Well, this would benefit