“Certain.”
“But the chimney stack?” whispered Frank, as he could dimly make out that his father was uncoiling the rope, and he could see no place that would be suitable.
“Hist! This is better.”
Sir Robert was now kneeling down, and after being puzzled for a few moments, Frank then made out that his father was passing one end of the rope through an opening at the corner of the parapet where the rain-water ran through a leaded shoot into the upright leaden stack-pipe which ran down the house and carried it into the drain.
Frank dimly made out that he knotted the rope carefully, and tried it by pulling hard twice over, before throwing a few yards over the parapet and letting the rest run through his hands till it was all down.
His next movement puzzled the boy, but he grasped the meaning directly after.
They were at an angle now, and Sir Robert was carefully testing the stone coping, to see if it were tight in its place and the pieces held together by the iron clamps kept in their places by the running in of molten lead.
Apparently satisfied, he turned quickly to where Frank stood, now trembling, grasped his hand, and whispered:
“Have you a knife?”
“Yes, father.”