“Yes it is there that I have lived.  Come down, Sir, and see for yourself;” and the landlord moved down a couple of steps.  Faversham drew back.  At once the landlord turned to him.

“But there is nothing to fear, Sir,” he said with a deprecatory smile.  Faversham coloured to the roots of his hair.

“Of course there is nothing,” said he and he followed the landlord.  The cellar was only lighted by the trap-door and at first Faversham coming out of the daylight could distinguish nothing at all.  He stood, however, with his back to the light and in a little he began to see.  A little truckle-bed with a patchwork counterpane stood at the end, the floor was merely hard earth, the furniture consisted of a stove, a stool and a small deal table.  And as Faversham took in the poverty of this underground habitation, he suddenly found himself in darkness again.  The explanation came to him at once, the entrance to the cellar had been blocked from the light.  Yet he had heard no sound except the footsteps of people in the street above his head.  He turned and faced the stair steps.  As he did so, the light streamed down again; the obstruction had been removed, and that obstruction had not been the trap-door as Faversham had suspected, but merely the body of some inquisitive passer-by.  He recognised this with relief and immediately heard voices speaking together, and as it seemed to him in lowered tones.

A sword rattled on the pavement, the entrance was again darkened, but Faversham had just time to see that the man who stooped down wore the buttons of a uniform and a soldier’s kepi.  He kept quite still, holding his breath while the man peered down into the cellar.  He remembered with a throb of hope that he had himself been unable to distinguish a thing in the gloom.  And then the landlord knocked against the table and spoke aloud.  At once the man at the head of the steps stood up.  Faversham heard him cry out in French, “They are here,” and he detected a note of exultation in the cry.  At the same moment a picture flashed before his eyes, the picture of that dusty desolate dining-room up the steps, and of a long table surrounded by chairs, upon which lay a sword and a revolver,—­his sword, his revolver.  He had dismissed his sixty soldiers, he was alone.

“This is a trap,” he blurted out.

“But, Sir, I do not understand,” began the landlord, but Faversham cut him short with a whispered command for silence.

The cellar darkened again, and the sound of boots rang upon the stone steps.  A rifle besides clanged as it struck against the wall.  The French soldiers were descending.  Faversham counted them by the light which escaped past their legs; there were three.  The landlord kept the silence which had been enjoined upon him but he fancied in the darkness that he heard some one’s teeth chattering.

The Frenchmen descended into the cellar and stood barring the steps.  Their leader spoke.