They did. But even this did not satisfy the suddenly cautious Edred.
“The parlour door, too,” he said.
So they locked the parlour door, and Elfrida put the key in a safe place, “for fear of accidents,” she said. I do not at all know what she meant, and when she came to think it over she did not know either. But it seemed all right at the time.
They had provided themselves with a box of matches and a candle—and now the decisive moment had come, as they say about battles.
Elfrida fumbled for the secret spring.
“How does it open?” asked the boy.
“I’ll show you presently,” said the girl. She could not show him then, because, in point of fact, she did not know. She only knew there was a secret spring, and she was feeling for it with both hands among the carved wreaths of the panels, as she stood with one foot on each of the arms of a very high chair—the only chair in the room high enough for her to be able to reach all round the panel. Suddenly something clicked and the secret door flew open—she just had time to jump to the floor, or it would have knocked her down.
Then she climbed up again and got into the hole, and Edred handed her the candle.
“Where’s the matches?” she asked.
“In my pocket,” said he firmly. “I’m not going to have you starting off without me—again.”