“You can see every little bit exactly right,” said Elfrida. “They’re a little tiny bit muzzy. I expect our distance wasn’t right or something, but that only makes them look more like real pictures, and us having printed them on paper that’s too big makes it more pictury too. And any one who knew about how buildings are built would know how to set it up. It would be like putting the bricks back into the box from the pattern inside the lid.”
Here Mrs. Honeysett called from the kitchen, “You done with all this litter?” and both children shouted “Yes!” and went on looking at the pictures. It was well that the shout was from both. If only one had done it there might have been what Mrs. Honeysett called “words” about the matter later; for next moment both said, “The films!” and rushed to the kitchen—just in time to see the kitchen fire enlivened by that peculiar crackling flare which fire and films alone can produce. Mrs. Honeysett had thrown the films on the fire with the other “litter,” and it was no one’s fault but the children’s, as Mrs. Honeysett pointed out.
“I ask you if you done with it all, an’ you says ‘Yes’—only yourselves to thank,” she repeated again and again amid their lamentations, and they had to own that she was right.
“We must take extra special care of the prints, that’s all,” said Edred, and the “History of the Ardens” was chosen as a hiding-place both safe and appropriate.
“It doesn’t matter so much about the films,” said Elfrida, “because we could never have shown them to any one. If we find the treasure we’ll arrange for Auntie to find these prints—leave the History about or something—and she’ll think they’re photographs of painted pictures. So that’ll be all right.”
As they arranged the prints between the leaves of the History Elfrida’s eye was caught by the words “moat” and “water-supply,” and she read on and turned the page.
“Don’t stop to read,” said Edred, but she waved him away.
“I say, listen,” she said, turning back; and she read—
“‘In ancient times Arden Castle was surrounded by a moat. The original architects of the venerable pile, with that ingenuity whose fruits the thinking world so much admires in the lasting monuments of their labours, diverted from its subterraneous course a stream which rose through the chalk in the hills of the vicinity, and is said to debouch into the sea about fifty yards below high-water mark. The engineering works necessary for this triumph of mind over matter endured till 1647, when the castle was besieged by the troops of that monster in human form Oliver Cromwell. To facilitate his attack on the castle the officer in command gave orders that the stream should be diverted once more into its original channel. This order was accordingly executed by his myrmidons, and the moat was left dry, this assisting materially the treacherous designs of the detestable regicides. It is rumoured that the stream, despite the lapse of centuries, still maintains its subterranean course; but the present author, on visiting, during the autumn of 1821, the residence of the present Earl of Arden, and by his permission, most courteously granted, exploring the site thoroughly, was unable to find any trace of its existence. The rural denizens of the district denied any knowledge of such a stream, but they are sunk in ignorance and superstition, and have no admiration for the works of philosophy or the awe-inspiring beauties of Nature.’”
“What a dull chap he is!” said Edred. “But, I say, when was it printed—1822? . . . I believe I know why the rural What’s-his-names wouldn’t let on about the stream. Don’t you see, it’s the stream that runs through the smugglers’ cave? and they were smuggling then for all they were worth.”