'I should think you did!' said the Vicar's wife. 'Frightening everybody out of their wits like this! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.' 'We are,' said Jane gently. 'But who locked the door?' asked the Vicar. 'I don't know at all,' said Robert, with perfect truth. 'Do please send us home.' 'Well, really,' said the Vicar, 'I suppose we'd better. Andrew, put the horse to, and you can take them home.' 'Not alone, I don't,' said Andrew to himself. 'And,' the Vicar went on, 'let this be a lesson to you ...' He went on talking, and the children listened miserably. But the keeper was not listening. He was looking at the unfortunate Cyril. He knew all about poachers of course, so he knew how people look when they're hiding something. The Vicar had just got to the part about trying to grow up to be a blessing to your parents, and not a trouble and a disgrace, when the keeper suddenly said: 'Arst him what he's got there under his jacket'; and Cyril knew that concealment was at an end. So he stood up, and squared his shoulders and tried to look noble, like the boys in books that no one can look in the face of and doubt that they come of brave and noble families and will be faithful to the death, and he pulled out the soda-water syphon and said: 'Well, there you are, then.' There was a silence. Cyril went on - there was nothing else for it: 'Yes, we took this out of your larder, and some chicken and tongue and bread. We were very hungry, and we didn't take the custard or jam. We only took bread and meat and water - and we couldn't help its being the soda kind -just the necessaries of life; and we left half-a-crown to pay for it, and we left a letter. And we're very sorry. And my father will pay a fine or anything you like, but don't send us to prison. Mother would be so vexed. You know what you said about not being a disgrace. Well, don't you go and do it to us - that's all! We're as sorry as we can be. There!' 'However did you get up to the larder window?' said Mrs Vicar. 'I can't tell you that,' said Cyril firmly. 'Is this the whole truth you've been telling me?' asked the clergyman. 'No,' answered Jane suddenly; 'it's all true, but it's not the whole truth. We can't tell you that. It's no good asking. Oh, do forgive us and take us home!' She ran to the Vicar's wife and threw her arms round her. The Vicar's wife put her arms round Jane, and the keeper whispered behind his hand to the Vicar: 'They're all right, sir - I expect it's a pal they're standing by. Someone put 'em up to it, and they won't peach. Game little kids.' 'Tell me,' said the Vicar kindly, 'are you screening someone else? Had anyone else anything to do with this?' 'Yes,' said Anthea, thinking of the Psammead; 'but it wasn't their fault.' 'Very well, my dears,' said the Vicar, 'then let's say no more about it. Only just tell us why you wrote such an odd letter.'