“But is it upstairs or downstairs?”
“Up, of course; and look here.”
Scarlett pointed to what had at first escaped their sight—to wit, a second door, ingeniously contrived in one angle of the little chamber, and in the dim light shed by the candle hardly distinguishable from the panelling.
“Where can that go?”
“Oh, it’s only a cupboard. Stop a moment.”
Scarlett went to the other side, crushing down the heap of rotten twigs brought in by the birds, and thrust his hand amongst the mass of sickly ivy strands, to find that the opening through which they came was completely choked up, but after a little feeling about he was able to announce that there was a narrow slit-like window, with an upright rusty iron bar.
“Why, it will be glorious, Scar,” cried Fred. “Let’s clear the place out, and cut away the ivy, and then we can keep it all a secret.”
“Yes, and bring some furniture—chairs and table, and a carpet. Why, we might have a bed too.”
“How are you going to get them here?”
Scarlett gave his dark curls a vicious rub. “I never thought of that.”