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.
‘Discovered!’ hissed Robert. ‘Oh, my cats alive!’