“The big one hasn’t been opened for a long time, I fancy, because the crack was packed with sand and grit. The grooves round the little ones, on the other hand, seem fairly clear.
“On my way back I stubbed my toe on another arrow sticking up in the ground, and brought that along, too. There’s no other entrance except the gate and the valley mouth where we stopped. It’s smooth rock wall all round like the sides of a well.
“After a last look in case we might see a glimmer of light in the loopholes, we came back. I’ve got the arrows tied up there. Pass ’em over, Alec.”
He spread them out on the top of the yakhdan[4] that served us as a table. “I cleaned ’em up a bit on the way down. Look, just as the diary said, there is writing on them.” He pointed to the stem below the draggled feathers. “What do you make of it?”
“They’re not the same, anyway. And they’re very indistinct. Here, put the light nearer,” said I.
“One thing, they’ve all got the same coloured shafts. See, they’re all black.”
“This one’s different,” said Forsyth. “Look, there’s a red ring round under the feathers.”
“Well, what’s the writing?” queried Wrexham.
“I’ve got mine,” said I. “It’s ‘Freedom.’”
“And I’ve got mine, too, now,” said Forsyth. “It runs ‘A little time.’ What on earth does that mean?”