He accordingly produced another from his pocket, and lit it,
and during the process of so doing, he made up his mind to risk a
descent into the regions below, so far as the iron door. He at first
took his light in his hand to take it with him, but a few moments'
reflection decided him to go in the dark, and placing it upon a corner
of the shelf, as he had done before, he opened the cupboard, at the back
of which was the secret door, and soon found himself upon the little
staircase. Of course, the object of Sir Richard Blunt was to make what
discovery he could, without betraying the fact of his own presence; and,
accordantly with such a design, hastened lightly as foot could fall, so
that he was some few minutes in reaching the iron door, which he felt
with his left hand, which he kept during his progress outstretched
before him. The next object was to get the little wicket open without
noise, for he recollected that Mrs. Lovett had made a sharp sound by the
sudden withdrawal of a bolt that secured it on the side next to the
staircase. By carefully feeling over the door, he at last lit upon this
bolt, and then, by taking his time over it, he succeeded in drawing it
back without creating the least sound. When this was done, the wicket
yielded easily, for it had no other fastening than that bolt, and when
it opened, which it did towards the stairs, the same dull reddish glare
came through the small aperture that he had noticed when Mrs. Lovett was
there, but he found what he had not noticed upon that occasion, namely,
that when the wicket was removed there were iron bars farther securing
the opening, so that it was quite clear it was intended to be a thing of
strength. When, however, the magistrate found that there was nothing
between him and the region of the ovens but this grating, he placed his
ear close to it, in order to listen if any one was stirring. After a few
moments, he heard a deep groan. Somewhat startled at this sound--for it
was certainly unexpected--he tried to pierce with his eyes the obscurity
of the place, but the darkness, although not absolute, was of that
puzzling character that the more he looked the more all sorts of odd
images seemed to be conjured up before his eyes. He began, too, to think
that the groan must have been only some accidental sound that he had
mistaken, but he was quickly relieved from such an opinion by hearing it
again, much more distinctly and unequivocally than it had before sounded
upon his ears. There was no possibility of mistaking this groan now; but
while the certainty that a groan it was came upon his ears, he became
only the more puzzled to account for it; and this state of feeling in
him certainly arose from the difficulty he naturally had in conceiving
the possibility of any one being upon the premises, and engaged in the
service of Mrs. Lovett, unless they were accomplices of that lady. The
idea of the captive cook was not at all likely to cross the imagination
of any one, and in her revelations upon that head, during her
somnambulistic tour, Mrs. Lovett had not been sufficiently explicit to
enable Sir Richard Blunt to come to a different conclusion. "I will listen for it again," he thought. After a few moments more he was rewarded for his patience by not only
hearing another groan, but a voice, in accents of the most woe-begone
character, said--

"I cannot sleep. It is of no avail. Alas! who dare sleep here! God help
me, for I am past all human aid." "Who on earth can this be?" said the magistrate to himself. "It would be better for them to kill me at once," continued the voice. "Anything would be preferable to this continued horror; but I suppose
they have not suited themselves yet with some one to take my place, so I
am not to be sent to see my old friends. Oh, bitter--bitter fate. I
would that I were dead!" [Illustration: The Captive Piemaker Contemplates Suicide.] There was a heartiness in the pronunciation of the last word, that quite
convinced Sir Richard Blunt of their sincerity; but yet he thought he
ought to listen to a little more before he ran the risk of falling into
any trap that might be laid for him by Mrs. Lovett or her satellites, if
she had any. He had not to wait long, for whoever it was that was
speaking had got into a good train of groaning, and did not seem
inclined to leave off for some time. "Is she a woman, or the devil in petticoats?" said the voice. "Humph!" thought Sir Richard Blunt, "that would be rather a hard
question to answer upon oath." "How much longer am I to bear this load of misery?" continued the voice. "No sleep--no food, but just what will sustain nature in her continued
sufferings. Oh, it is most horrible. Have I been preserved from death
under many adventurous and fearful circumstances, at last to die here
like a rat in a hole?" "What on earth can be the matter with this man?" thought Sir Richard. There was a pause in the lamentations of the man now for a few seconds,
during which he only groaned once or twice, just as if by way of letting
any one know, who might be listening, that he was not pacified. At
length, with a sudden burst of passion, he cried--

"I can bear it no longer. Death of my own seeking, and by my own choice
as to method, is far preferable to this state of existence. Farewell,
all--farewell to you, fair and gentle girl, whom I loved and whose
falseness first gave me a pang such as the assassin's dagger could not
have inflicted. Farewell, dear companions of my youth, whom I had hoped
to see again!" "Stop!" said Sir Richard Blunt. The captive cook was still. "Stop!" cried Sir Richard Blunt again. "Good God! who is that?" said the voice from the region of the oven. "Your good genius, if I save you from doing anything rash; who and what
are you? Tell me all." "To be betrayed. Ah, you are some spy of Mrs. Lovett's of course, and
you only wish to draw me into conversation for my destruction." "What were you going to do just now?" "Take my own life." "Well, if you find I am an enemy instead of a friend, as I profess to
be, you can but carry out your intention." "That's true." The captive cook pronounced these two words in such a solemn tone, that
the magistrate was more than ever convinced of his sincerity, and that
he was far more a victim of Mrs. Lovett and her associate, the barber,
than an accomplice. "Speak freely," said Sir Richard. "Who and what are you?" "I am the most unhappy wretch that ever breathed. I am cribbed and
cabined and confined, I live upon raw flour and water. I curse the hour
that I was born, and wish I had been a blind kitten and drowned, rather
than what I am." "But what do you do here?" "Make numberless pies." "Well?" "It's all very fine for you to say well, whoever you are, but it is
anything but well with me. Where are you?" "Upon the staircase, near an iron door." "Ah, you are at the aperture through which that abominable Mrs. Lovett
issues to me her commands and her threats.