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Updated: May 6, 2025
In front was the schloss and the lady of the manor, the honorable Countess herself, on the steps, quite by chance, so it seemed. She led us proudly into the salon. A large bunch of keys hung at her girdle. I wondered why she needed so many! After the coal-bin, wine-vault, and sugar-bowl, and linen-closet had been locked up, what more did she need to lock up?
That night at about the hour of twelve, the dark figure of a man crossed the garden in the rear of Frank Sydney's house, and approached the iron door of the wine-vault wherein Nero, the African, was imprisoned. By the aid of skeleton keys he unlocked the door, and bade the prisoner come forth. The negro obeyed, surprised and delighted at his unexpected deliverance.
This telephone was in a front room and the jury was led to judge that she had gained access to it while her companion ransacked the wine-vault and brought the six bottles of spirit up from the cellar.
Though he dropped his glass, and let it shiver on the board, he himself says that he was desperately put out with her, and could only drown his mad emotions in drink. He knew that she would hear of it if he went to any saloon in town; so he stole the key from your bunch, and went to help himself out of the club-house wine-vault. That's how he came to be there. What followed, who knows?
"No, I took a key a key from the bunch which I saw lying on the table." "Did you recognise this key?" "I did." "What key was it?" "It belonged to Mr. Ranelagh, and was the key to the club-house wine-vault." "Where did you put it after taking it up?" "In my trousers' pocket." "What did you do then?" "Went out, of course." "Without seeing anybody?" "Of course. Whom should I see?"
Evidently he did not consider the pace a very fast one, but being a cheerful fellow by nature, he simply expressed his dissatisfaction by an imperceptible shrug. "Do you know exactly what the club-house's wine-vault contained?" he asked. "An inventory was given me by the steward the morning we closed. It must be in my rooms." "Your rooms have been examined. You expected that, didn't you?
The dark, gloomy shops varying in size between a coach-house and a wine-vault, have their wide shutter-doors flung open to the streets. A feeble lamp hung at the back of every shop you pass, before a painted Madonna shrine, makes the darkness of their interiors visible. The trades of Rome are primitive and few in number.
Shaken or not, his attack was stern, swift, and to the point. "Was the visit you made to the wine-vault on the evening of the second of December, the first one you had ever paid there?" "No; I had been there once before. But I always paid for my depredations," he added, proudly. "The categorical answer, Mr. Cumberland. Anything else is superfluous."
That it was used to open the wine-vault door is evident from the fact that it was found in the lock." This was discouraging. Everything was against me. If the whole affair had been planned with an intent to inculpate me and me only, it could not have been done with more attention to detail, nor could I have found myself more completely enmeshed.
More distinctly, now, the murmur of Arab voices was becoming audible. The Master leaped. Far below, at the bottom of the pit, as the Arabs burst into the wine-vault, sounded a final impact of some heavy body striking swift water that swept it instantly away. Then silence filled the black, rock-hewn chamber in the labyrinthine depths of Jannati Shahr. The Desert. Four men, one woman.
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