“EDRED AND THE BIG CHAIR FELL TO THE FLOOR.”
“Well, come on, then,” said Elfrida, ignoring the injustice of this speech.
“All right,” said Edred, climbing on the chair. “How does it open?”
He had half closed the door, and was feeling among the carved leaves, as he had seen her do.
“Oh, come on,” said Elfrida, “oh, look out!”
Well might she request her careless brother to look out. As he reached up to touch the carving, the chair tilted, he was jerked forward, caught at the carving to save himself, missed it, and fell forward with all his weight against the half-open door. It shut with a loud bang. Then a resounding crash echoed through the quiet house as Edred and the big chair fell to the floor in, so to speak, each other’s arms.
There was a stricken pause. Then Elfrida from the other side of the panel beat upon it with her fists and shouted—
“Open the door! You aren’t hurt, are you?”
“Yes, I am—very much,” said Edred, from the outside of the secret door, and also from the hearthrug. “I’ve twisted my leg in the knickerbocker part, and I’ve got a great bump on my head, and I think I’m going to be very poorly.”