Harold had sustained no further injury than a few scratches in the collapse of the staircase at Wangooma. He picked himself out of the debris covered with dust and cobwebs, dreading that the crash had alarmed the household. He listened attentively, but hearing nothing, struck a match. He scanned the ruins in dismay, for they represented the destruction of his only means of escape. The walls were twelve feet high, with no protuberances to afford him footholds in scaling. How was he to get out? Perhaps Gallagher, in looking for him, would discover the hidden door and come to his rescue. With this reflection he sat down on the wreckage, and lit his pipe.
In the meantime Pat Gallagher had shut up the house, and returned to the dressing-room. He put his head over the chest of drawers and whispered: "Yez can come out av that now, Misther Harold. The owld spalpeen's gone below--the divil kape him there. Musha, can't yez hear me, yer omadhaun? It's safe to come out, Oi'm tellin' ye." He expected to see Harold's head pop up like a jack-in-the-box; but there was no response. Pat leaned over again and called to him in a louder key, without, of course, receiving any more satisfaction than at first.
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