"But he said - no one would ever think to look for us here. Oh, Peter, why ever didn't we leave the Priory as Celia wanted?"
"Nonsense!" he said bracingly. "When Charles finds we've disappeared he'll pull the Priory down stone by stone. Listen, Sis! Don't give way! Already Charles knows there's something odd about the place. You don't suppose he and Celia would calmly give us up for lost when they must guess we're somewhere in the house? They'll have Scotland Yard on to it, and the whole countryside will be up. There isn't the slightest doubt that they'll find us."
She pointed out the water-bottle. "And we've got that — to last us till they do find us. It might take them weeks. Or perhaps the Monk will do as that man meant, and kill us."
"If he were going to kill us he'd hardly have bothered to let us have any water, or a second chair," Peter pointed out. "Sis, if you let go of yourself, you're not the girl I take you for. We may even find a way out ourselves. My dear kid, people don't get buried alive in the twentieth century!"
She knew that he was talking more to reassure her than from any real conviction, but she pulled herself together. "Yes. Of course. Sorry. Do you suppose this machine goes on all day, or will they all go away?"
"Go away, I should think. Too risky to work by day. When they've cleared off we can try and force that shutter back. I might be able to reach the top bolt, and that would give us a better chance of breaking the door down. Or I might be able to drive the wood in with the help of one of the chairs. What we've got to do is to keep our spirits up and talk of something else till the gang has gone. Wonder how they ventilate this place?"
She tried to follow his lead. "Yes, they must have some sort of ventilation, mustn't they? And though it's musty, and sort of close, it isn't airless, is it? How would they do it?"
"Don't quite know. If they've got power enough to work a machine they've probably rigged up some system of fans, same as they have in mines. But there must be an outlet somewhere, and that's what I can't make out."
They speculated on this for some time in rather a halfhearted fashion. Then Peter produced his cigarette-case, and they lit up, and smoked for a while, trying to think of something cheerful to talk about.
It was not only damp, but also cold, in the stone room, and Margaret had no coat. Peter saw her shiver, and began to take off his coat. "Sis, why didn't you sing out? You must be frozen in that thin dress. Here, put this on."