With some difficulty I got at my coat pocket where reposed my electric torch and my pistol.  With immense labour and no little pain I pulled the former out and switched it on by drawing the catch against the cross-bar.  Then I saw my prison house.

It was a little square chamber, very high, with on my left the massive door by which Ivery had departed.  The dark baulks of my rack were plain, and I could roughly make out how the thing had been managed.  Some spring had tilted up the flooring, and dropped the framework from its place in the right-hand wall.  It was clamped, I observed, by an arrangement in the floor just in front of the door.  If I could get rid of that catch it would be easy to free myself, for to a man of my strength the weight would not be impossibly heavy.

My fortitude had come back to me, and I was living only in the moment, choking down any hope of escape.  My first job was to destroy the catch that clamped down the rack, and for that my only weapon was my pistol.  I managed to get the little electric torch jammed in the corner of the cross-bar, where it lit up the floor towards the door.  Then it was hell’s own business extricating the pistol from my pocket.  Wrist and fingers were always cramping, and I was in terror that I might drop it where I could not retrieve it.

I forced myself to think out calmly the question of the clamp, for a pistol bullet is a small thing, and I could not afford to miss.  I reasoned it out from my knowledge of mechanics, and came to the conclusion that the centre of gravity was a certain bright spot of metal which I could just see under the cross-bars.  It was bright and so must have been recently repaired, and that was another reason for thinking it important.  The question was how to hit it, for I could not get the pistol in line with my eye.  Let anyone try that kind of shooting, with a bent arm over a bar, when you are lying flat and looking at the mark from under the bar, and he will understand its difficulties.  I had six shots in my revolver, and I must fire two or three ranging shots in any case.  I must not exhaust all my cartridges, for I must have a bullet left for any servant who came to pry, and I wanted one in reserve for myself.  But I did not think shots would be heard outside the room; the walls were too thick.

I held my wrist rigid above the cross-bar and fired.  The bullet was an inch to the right of the piece of bright steel.  Moving a fraction I fired again.  I had grazed it on the left.  With aching eyes glued on the mark, I tried a third time.  I saw something leap apart, and suddenly the whole framework under which I lay fell loose and mobile . . .  I was very cool and restored the pistol to my pocket and took the torch in my hand before I moved . . .  Fortune had been kind, for I was free.  I turned on my face, humped my back, and without much trouble crawled out from under the contraption.

I did not allow myself to think of ultimate escape, for that would only flurry me, and one step at a time was enough.  I remember that I dusted my clothes, and found that the cut in the back of my head had stopped bleeding.  I retrieved my hat, which had rolled into a corner when I fell . . .  Then I turned my attention to the next step.