And Elfrida agreed that this was so.
"Well, I scratched it, anyway," said Dickie. "Now, then, let me go ahead with the chisel."
Edred let him: he knew how clever Dickie was with his hands, for had he not made a work-box for Elfrida and a tool-chest for Edred, both with lids that fitted?
Dickie got the point of the chisel between the stones and pried and pressed—here and there, and at the other end—till the stone moved forward a little at a time, and they were able to get hold of it, and drag it out. Behind was darkness, a hollow—Dickie plunged his arm in.
"I can feel the door," he said; "it's all right."
"Let's fetch father," suggested Elfrida; "he will enjoy it so."
So he was fetched. Elfrida burst into the library where her father was busy with many lawyers' letters and papers, and also with the lawyer himself, a stout, jolly-looking gentleman in a tweed suit, not a bit like the long, lean, disagreeable, black-coated lawyers you read about in books.
"Please, daddy," she cried, "we've found the treasure. Come and look."
"What treasure? and how often have I told you not to interrupt me when I am busy?"
"Oh, well," said Elfrida, "I only thought it would amuse you, daddy. We've found a bricked-up place, and there's a door behind, and I'm almost sure it's where they hid the treasure when Cromwell's wicked men took the Castle."