I finally got my own set of house keys when I turned eleven. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. But, Gerald, do you believe there is a secret passage indeed?’ ‘Well, we covered every inch of the house and grounds, and I swear she never left that room by way of the door. One of the reasons why I decline to talk is this: that boy's punishment will be enough. He tried again. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music.
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