The stout man at the type-case, failing to respond, and the other being apparently too surprised to speak, Frances went to the blackamoor and, standing beside the press, was about to repeat her inquiry.
The type-case, press, and a small table, on which lay a bundle of white paper, all stood huddled together in the centre of the room, occupying a space of perhaps eight feet square.
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.