They listened. A low murmur came up from below; the voices were muffled, by distance or intervening substances, and could not be distinguished.
"Oh, do you think we'd better open it?" said Margaret, who had such a wholesome awe of the Mysteries of Fernley that she was prepared for anything in the way of the marvellous.
"That is what I think!" said Gerald, cheerfully. "That's what it was made for, you see. A door that does not fulfil its destiny might just as well be something else, skittles, or a pump, or—other things. Now this—"
As he spoke, he gave a vigorous pull; the door lifted, but at the same instant the candle slipped from his hand, and fell rattling into some unseen depth below, leaving them in blank darkness. Margaret uttered a cry of alarm. "Don't fall! Oh, pray be careful, Mr. Merryweather!"
"All right!" said Gerald. "Stay just where you are, for a moment, while I explore this—aperture. Ha! the steps continue. You don't mind if I leave you in the dark for just a minute, Miss Montfort?"
Margaret did not mind, once assured that her companion was not engaged in the congenial pursuit of breaking his neck. She began feeling about her in the darkness, darkness so thick it was like black velvet, she said to herself. She found the wall; it was warm, as she said; she began passing her hand mechanically along the bricks, counting them.
A cheerful voice came up from below: "I have found the doughnuts—good ones!—and the—seem to be—yes! sweet pickles. Corking! And—now you've done it, my son! Jam, by all that's adhesive! Put my whole hand in. Jerusalem and Mad—"
At this instant there was a sound as of a door thrown violently open; a flood of light filled the place; light, and an angry voice.
"Who's this here in my pantry? Come out of that, ye rascal, before I set the dogs on ye!"
Gerald Merryweather uttered a yell of delight. "Destiny!" he shouted. "My fate cries out. Quits, Mrs. Cook, quits! Come to my arms!"