For a second or two he waited, tense and with ears strained for the slightest sound. It was very quiet in the cellar; the rumble of the traffic in Praed Street came to him but faintly. Then, all at once, he caught his breath as a pungent and unfamiliar smell reached him. Suddenly he found himself choking, dizzy, his senses leaving him. An overpowering impulse to escape from the cellar swept through him, drowning his fear of what might be awaiting him outside. He staggered towards the door, his hands clawing wildly over its damp surface. There used to be a string by which one pulled it open, but Mr. Martin could not find it. Vainly he strove against the awful numbness which closed in upon him. He must find the string, must⁠—

With a crash Mr. Martin fell down at the foot of the door. The little cellar resumed its accustomed silence.