But I had to tell you the other first. That is one of the most
annoying things about stories, you cannot tell all the different
parts of them at the same time.
Robert's first remark when he found himself seated on the damp,
cold, sooty leads was--
'Here's a go!'
Jane's first act was tears.
'Dry up, Pussy; don't be a little duffer,' said her brother,
kindly, 'it'll be all right.'
And then he looked about, just as Cyril had known he would, for
something to throw down, so as to attract the attention of the
wayfarers far below in the street. He could not find anything.
Curiously enough, there were no stones on the leads, not even a
loose tile. The roof was of slate, and every single slate knew its
place and kept it. But, as so often happens, in looking for one
thing he found another. There was a trap-door leading down into
the house.
And that trap-door was not fastened.
'Stop snivelling and come here, Jane,' he cried, encouragingly.
'Lend a hand to heave this up. If we can get into the house, we
might sneak down without meeting any one, with luck. Come on.'
They heaved up the door till it stood straight up, and, as they
bent to look into the hole below, the door fell back with a hollow
clang on the leads behind, and with its noise was mingled a
blood-curdling scream from underneath.
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