“And what thickness!” said D’Arcy, striking the papered passage with his open hand; “as solid as the rock of Cashel! By Jove—no! the wall is hollow. I say, Biddy!”
“What do you say?”
“That I believe there’s a door or something here,” passing his fingers up and down, “Just feel!”
“There can’t be a door,” she objected, “for there is no room at the other side.”
“Well, there is something. I’ll scrape off a bit of the paper and see,” and, as he spoke, he produced a pen-knife, and began to make an incision.
“Wood!” he exclaimed. “Bridgie, there’s more in this than meets the eye,” and he looked at her eagerly; “a door papered up.”
“But that’s nothing—it’s a common thing.”
“Maybe so, but I have an idea. I cannot do anything now, it’s too late, and the light is bad, but I’ll be here to-morrow at eight, and I’ll strip this door, if you don’t mind?”
“Mind!” she repeated, “as if we did not sell doors! But I’m awfully afraid you will have your trouble for nothing. However, I’ll make you a cup of tea, and be here to help you.”
“Not a word to Granny—yet.”