We had no time to exchange a word with the police inspector before the sharp, brittle beat of footsteps sounded along the corridors above. The kitchen door opened with a sudden crash that set my nerves fluttering. Mindful of Pons's exhortations, I already had my revolver in hand, the safety catch off. The cellar was flooded with light from the overhead fitting.
I just caught sight of Inspector Oldale pressing farther back into the shadow behind the arch as Pons and I moved cautiously into the darkness of the aisle between the wine bins. We were well concealed here, and I pressed my eye to a space between the bins near ground level, which commanded a good view of the cellar.
Footsteps were descending, and the naked bulb in the vaulted ceiling cast grotesque shadows across the wall.
"It's been a long time."
There was exultation and expectancy in the harsh voice.
"It has that. But worth it."
Silence then, as though the owners of the voices had stopped. Now they came forward again. I shrank back, but the two roughly dressed men who descended the steps so confidently had no eyes for anything but that cleared part of the cellar between two of the high windows. I had noticed before that there was a large patch of lighter cement there, but I now realized its full significance and why Pons had given it particular attention
His lean, feral features were completely absorbed as he studied the two men who advanced with heavy canvas bags. They carried picks and shovels in their right hands, and there was urgency and purpose in their every movement. I noticed that Pons had his own pistol out and ready for use at his side. The men knelt on the cellar floor and were busy unbuckling the bags they carried. They had their backs to the arch concealing Inspector Oldale, so I knew there was no danger of them seeing him; they were far too absorbed, in any event.
The taller of the two men had black hair turning silver and as he turned toward me under the light of the bulb, I could see that he had a dirty white scar running down the side of his face. He wore a heavy knitted jersey such as fishermen wear, dark trousers, and what appeared to be rope-soled sandals.
His companion was slightly smaller but still looked formidable; built like a boxer, he had fair hair and appeared to be a good deal younger than his companion. He had a white, set face in which his eyes burned like tiny sparks of fire. He wore coarse blue overalls and dark trousers similar to those of his companion. Both men were rummaging in the canvas bags now and were consulting a slip of paper, conversing in low whispers all the while.
The bigger man looked anxiously up at the two cellar windows, as though he had just noticed them for the first time. Then there followed another interval while the two men paced out certain measurements between two of the arches and carried on a fierce argument in menacing tones.
When that was over, the big man carried one of the pickaxes over and made a few trial blows at the patch of light cement. Chips rained about the cellar floor. He was then joined by the second man and they worked on steadily for a quarter of an hour, dealing blows that seemed to make the whole cellar shiver. Dust and chippings drifted about, and a gaping crack gradually spread under their expert efforts. Both men were evidently in good condition because they never paused or hesitated, once they had begun to work.
I glanced at Pons but he was completely absorbed in the scene before him and made no comment, though we could easily have conversed undetected, such was the noise the two men were making. After a while they stopped, and both stooped and tugged at a long slab of cement which was proving difficult to dislodge. It finally gave with a loud cracking noise, disclosing a dark hole some six feet long and about four wide.
This caused some excitement because the pair stopped and held a whispered colloquy; then the bigger of the two fetched "a bottle from one of the bags and they drank a silent toast before falling to their work again. They were into earth now and the going had become comparatively easy; they were able to work in relative silence as they shoveled, up the layers of black mold and heaped them on the cellar floor of Buffington Old Grange.
The wind was rising heavily and made an uneasy background to the strange scene in front of us. Pons's eyes were shining with excitement and he could not resist a glance of satisfaction at me, as if to reproach me for my skepticism earlier.
I shifted my knee, for I was becoming cramped in one position and was suddenly aware that a relative silence had fallen. I again applied my eyes to the space at the bottom of the bins and saw that some discovery had been made. There had been a metallic clatter a short while before and now it came again as one of the men cautiously tested the pit with his shovel.
Both recommenced digging, this time with their bare hands, scooping up the earth like dogs and throwing it behind them in their abandoned excitement. Then they were bending over the hole in the cellar floor, levering at something; a few seconds later it came in sight — a large, oblong metal chest, with dry earth still clinging to the sides of it.
It made a shrill, grating noise as they dragged it out of the hole they had made and across the rim of the surrounding cement. The two men were silent now, crouched and looking down at the metal box, and there was an air of stillness in the cellar as though something tremendous had happened. Then one of the men let drop a ringing oath answered by a laugh from the second. The burlier stepped forward and the pickax rang on the padlock as he smashed the chest open.
The man with the scar let out a deep sigh and dipped his hand into the box.
Ten years, by God!" he said in a shaky voice. "Ten years!"
I had moved my position slightly because of my cramp and had become so absorbed in the scene that all caution was forgotten. A sudden stab of pain shot through my calf as I moved and I was caught off balance, my pistol barrel falling against a metal upright with a ringing crash. The immobile pair flanking the chest parted with the suddenness of disturbed water.
The tall man with the scar clapped his hand to his pocket as Pons and I started up. The hollow boom of the explosion seemed to rock the cellar and a bullet went ricocheting away among the casks and boxes, sending the splinters flying.
"Your shot, Parker, I think," said Pons calmly.
The second man was already running for the cellar steps as Inspector Oldale's police whistle shrilled. I had my revolver ready as the tall man brought up his pistol again. My shot caught him in the calf of his right leg and brought him painfully to the ground.
The running man was at the cellar door before the athletic figure of Oldale brought him low with a rugby tackle. The two rolled over as Pons ran up the steps to the detective's assistance. The night was full of pounding footsteps and the cellar suddenly seemed full of men in blue uniforms. The smoke of the two shots still hung in the air as Pons joined me, and we hurried to where the tall man lay twisted, cursing and groaning, his pistol fallen far out of reach in the hole the two men had so painstakingly dug.
Pons stood silently looking down at him for a moment as Oldale made his way to our side with the second prisoner, securely handcuffed. My companion's eyes flickered to the bundles of bank notes and the packets of sovereigns within the metal box. The eyes of the man with the white scar met ours unflinchingly.
"Mr. Ezekiel Walton if I am not much mistaken," said Pons grimly.
He turned to Inspector Oldale.
"And there is his fellow conspirator John Roberts. Both men out of prison only a year and certainly two of the most dangerous and enterprising rogues in England, as the judge so aptly described them."