That will-o’-the-wispy light of my flashlight sufficed just enough for me to make my way back to my cubby-hole, by carefully sidling along the wall. As I locked my grate, I had time to satisfy myself that the junk that I’d piled up with difficulty in my quest to reach the ladder now served as a screen blocking the view to the rear of my little cellar space, and the entrance to the underground. It was then, when I’d locked the grate and dropped the key into my pocket, that the thought first occurred to me. I stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot. But then, when I’d dragged the ladder to the stairs, the idea had settled, taken on firm contours, so that when I finally stood at the door of my flat, I knew that that mediaeval vault had revealed itself to me at precisely the right moment;
