“No, I can do everything from here. All you have to do is to put two long strips across the opening underneath the trap-door and screw them tight to the door. That’ll prevent his lifting it up. Then we’ll nail some cleats on the sides of the joists and tack boards to the cleats so as to fill up the hole in the ceiling of the closet.” Salter pretended to understand. “Can you come Thursday afternoon? Mrs. Winter and her niece who helps with the housework are going to a church club meeting at three o’clock, and the house will be clear.” “All right,” replied Laughlin, cheerfully. “I have the measurements, the school carpenter will give me boards, and I’ll get them ready beforehand so that we can whack them right up. You can smuggle the things in Wednesday evening, can’t you?” “Sure!” cried the boy, delighted at the apparently easy solution of the difficulty. On Thursday afternoon Laughlin and Lindsay sauntered in, the former bearing nails and screws, the latter with hammer and screwdriver bulging his hip pocket. “Coast clear?” asked the architect. “They’re both gone, but Marchmont’s up there,” said Salter, nervously. “Don’t care if he is,” responded Wolcott. “Go out on the steps and watch for Mrs. Winter. We’ll attend to this end.” The first part of the work went forward noiselessly, as the screws, driven by Laughlin’s powerful wrist, drew tight together the trap-door and the bars which locked it beneath the floor. When he came to the cleats, however, and the boards which were to cover the hole in the closet ceiling, the house resounded with the blows of the hammer. Laughlin was just fitting in his last board when Wolcott, turning round, saw Marchmont peering over his shoulder into the closet. “What’s going on here?” demanded the newcomer, in the tone which might be used by a householder who had suddenly come upon unauthorized workmen busy on his premises. Laughlin threw a single look at the questioner and returned to his hammering. Wolcott was silent. “I could cut through that in ten minutes,” said Marchmont, contemptuously. “You won’t, though, if you know what’s good for you,” replied Laughlin, preparing to nail down the shelf. “You’re not dealing with Salter now.” Marchmont muttered something under his breath, of which Wolcott caught but the single word “mucker.” That one word, however, was sufficient to swing him suddenly around and bring him one threatening step nearer the sneering face. “Repeat that, will you!” he called, his fists instinctively doubled. “I said that your friend was a very excellent workman,” replied Marchmont, smiling mockingly, as he edged away. “I was wondering what union he belongs to.”