Before Frances had gained courage to speak, a small bell rang.
Immediately the stout man sprang from the type-case, ran in great haste
to a chest near the wall, opened the lid and drew forth a long red cloak
and a fez-shaped cap of the same color, each embroidered with signs of
the zodiac in tarnished gold. He hurriedly put on the gown and cap, and
again diving into the chest, drew forth a long black coat, a broad Quaker
hat, a false beard, and a white wig. These he tossed to the blackamoor,
then ran across the room, opened a concealed panel in the wall, drew down
a lever, closed the panel, sprang to a large desk near by, sat down and
began to write diligently.
These strange, rapid actions on the part of the stout man were so
surprising and alarming to Frances that for the moment she did not
notice that the section of the floor on which she, the blackamoor, and
all the printing apparatus were standing was sinking. Almost before she
was aware of the startling movement of the floor, which, after it had
begun to move, seemed to fall rather than sink, it stopped suddenly,
perhaps eight feet below. The floor above closed silently over her head,
and she found herself alone with the inky man in almost total darkness.
She was too badly frightened to scream, or even to speak, and stood in
silence, awaiting with benumbed senses whatever calamity might befall
her.
After a minute or two the blackamoor spoke in whispers: "Mistress
Jennings need have no fear.
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