It was perfectly logical. There was a pause, and then the front door slammed. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. 1 through 1. But the Remenhams in the days of Charles the First, with the need for an escape route from Cromwell’s increasingly victorious forces, had cut a trapdoor through its floor into the cellars below, and thence hewn the long rough passageway that led underground right outside the boundary of the estate. “He means nothing!” She whispered loudly. The noise was raucous. Still—I don’t know whether I quite like—Something ramshackle about those people, Vee. It was a huge stone placed there by some workmen occupied in repairing the structure. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. CHAPTER XIV.
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