When he came to himself, there was absolute silence round him-deathly,
oppressive silence. At first he was dazed, but at length all that had
happened came back to him.

Where was he now? His feet were free; he began to move them about. He
remembered that he had been flung on the stone floor of the bakeroom.
This place sounded hollow underneath--it certainly was not the bakeroom.
He rolled over and over. Presently he touched a wall--it was stone. He
drew himself up to a sitting posture, but his head struck a curved stone
ceiling. Then he swung round and moved his foot along the wall--it
touched iron. He felt farther with his foot-something clicked. Now he
understood; he was in the oven of the bakehouse, with his hands bound.
He began to think of means of escape. The iron door had no inside latch.
There was a small damper covering a barred hole, through which perhaps he
might be able to get a hand, if only it were free. He turned round so
that his fingers might feel the grated opening. The edge of the little
bars was sharp. He placed the strap binding his wrists against these
sharp edges, and drew his arms up and down, a difficult and painful
business. The iron cut his hands and wrists at first, so awkward was the
movement. But, steeling himself, he kept on steadily.

At last the straps fell apart, and his hands were free. With difficulty
he thrust one through the bars. His fingers could just lift the latch.
Now the door creaked on its hinges, and in a moment he was out on the
stone flags of the bakeroom. Hurrying through an unlocked passage into
the shop, he felt his way to the street door, but it was securely
fastened. The windows? He tried them both, one on either side, but
while he could free the stout wooden shutters on the inside, a heavy iron
bar secured them without, and it was impossible to open them.