There must be a window somewhere that we can get out by."
Holding each other, still in nervous tenseness, they stole out into the gallery—dark, dark, very dark. But at the long gallery's end green light showed, a small square window, almost covered with ivy, but not shuttered.
"Lets," said Jane. "Oh, what was that?"
"That" was a sound in the house below, very faint but very distinct. The creaking of a board that is trodden on.
"It's the stairs," whispered Jane. "Fly—under that window. It's always darkest under the lamp."
"I can't fly," said Lucilla. "I put my bag down on the shelf of that cupboard. You fly. I'll get it."
Jane fled—and Lucilla, returning as in a flash with the bag, was just in time to hear a scrambling clatter-crash, and to see Jane's head, a moment ago clear between her and the window, disappear suddenly. She was also just in time to save herself from the black treachery of the stairs down which Jane had fallen.
She felt her way down the stairs to meet a small whisper.
"Don't walk on me—I can't move."
She reached down and touched a shoulder. Jane was lying in a crumpled bunch at the foot of the stairs. Lucilla got past her and crouched by her side.
"Are you much hurt? Have you broken anything?"
"You said it would land us! You felt it in your bones. Well—I've landed! And I feel it in mine! I didn't scream, did I?"
"You might just as well have done. You made a noise like a factory chimney coming down."
"Well, anyhow," said Jane, "it shows that creaking board was only rats or mice or owls or something. Anything human would have been on to us like a shot. Look here, old angel. I don't want to make a fuss—but I think I've broken my leg. And I don't quite see how we're going to get out of this."
"If we only had a light!" moaned Lucilla.
"Just so," said Jane. "You'll have to go and get the
