"I'll show you a ripping little path, right by the house, where there's a cave I made before—no one knows it but father and I, an' you can go right by it, an' never see it. Come on."
They scrambled over the iron railings that bound the neat, though modest, domain surrounding Camslove Grange. Through the tall tree trunks they could see the old house with its rough battlements and extended wings. In front of it the trim lawns sloped down to the stream, while behind, the Italian garden was cut out of a wild tangle of shrubs and brushwood.
Into this Tommy plunged, with the unerring steps of long acquaintance, holding back the branches, as Madge followed close upon his heels.
Once he turned, and looked back eagerly into her eyes.
"We're just by the path now—Isn't it grand?"
"Rather," she said.
Presently, with much labour, they reached a microscopical track through the underwood.
"There," observed Tommy, with the proud air of a proprietor, "Didn't I tell you?"
"No one could possibly find it, I should think," said Madge.