“You see, we started from here, Scar; then we went off so far to the left, then to the right, then to the left again, and then up into the chamber. Then we went out of the right-hand corner, and down that long flight of stairs to the passage, which led straight away to the vault, and down into the water.”
“Well?” said Scarlett, coolly.
“Yes, of course, I see it now. Then, according to my plan, the way into the lake must be just under where we are sitting.”
“Where is it, then?”
Fred looked up at his companion, rubbed his ear again, and then looked down at the water’s edge.
“It must be here somewhere,” he said. “Let’s have another look round.”
Scarlett rose to his feet from where he had been lying, and they once more searched the side of the lake, which toward the house was deep and dark below its high bank.
There were places where it might be possible for a tunnel to run down into the water, shady spots where willows and alders overhung the lake; places where birch and hazels grew close up to the patches of rushes and reed-mace, with its tall broken pokers standing high above the waving leaves.
In one indentation—a spot where the flat-bottomed boat lay moored—Scarlett felt certain that they had found the entrance; but when they lay flat on the overhanging bank and peered down below, there was nothing to be seen but black leaves and dead branches far below, while in mid-water, bar-sided perch in golden green armour, floated slowly to and fro, seeming to watch the movements of sundry carp close to the surface, gliding in and out among the stems of the lilies and nestling beneath the leaves.
“It’s of no use, Fred. I’m afraid we have made a mistake. That must be a kind of well made to supply the house with water, and it is all fancy about the passage coming down here.”