They unrolled the carpet quickly and slily--they did not want to attract public attention--and the moment their feet were on the carpet Anthea wished to be at home, and instantly they were. The kindness of their excellent uncle had made it unnecessary for them to go to such extremes as Cyril's Etons or Anthea's Sunday jacket for the patching of the carpet. Anthea set to work at once to draw the edges of the broken darn together, and Cyril hastily went out and bought a large piece of the marble-patterned American oil-cloth which careful housewives use to cover dressers and kitchen tables. It was the strongest thing he could think of. Then they set to work to line the carpet throughout with the oil-cloth. The nursery felt very odd and empty without the others, and Cyril did not feel so sure as he had done about their being able to "tram it" home. So he tried to help Anthea, which was very good for him, but not much use to her. The Phoenix watched them for a time, but it was plainly growing more and more restless. It fluffed up its splendid feathers, and stood first on one gilded claw and then on the other, and at last it said:-- [Illustration: "'GOOD OLD CARPET,' SAID CYRIL, JOYOUSLY."] "I can bear it no longer. This suspense! My Robert--who set my egg to hatch--in the bosom of whose Norfolk raiment I have nestled so often and so pleasantly! I think, if you'll excuse me----" "Yes--_do_," cried Anthea. "I wish we'd thought of asking you before." Cyril opened the window. The Phoenix flapped its sun-bright wings and vanished. "So _that's_ all right," said Cyril, taking up his needle and instantly pricking his hand in a new place. * * * * * Of course, I know that what you have really wanted to know about all this time is not what Anthea and Cyril did, but--what happened to Jane and Robert after they fell through the carpet on to the leads of the house which was called number 705, Amersham Road. But I had to tell you the other first. That is one of the most annoying things about stories. You cannot tell all the different parts of them at the same time. Robert's first remark when he found himself seated on the damp, cold, sooty leads was:-- "Here's a go!" Jane's first act was tears. "Dry up, Pussy; don't be a little duffer," said her brother, kindly. "It will be all right." And then he looked about, just as Cyril had known he would, for something to throw down, so as to attract the attention of the wayfarers far below in the street. He could not find anything. Curiously enough there were no stones on the leads, not even a loose tile. The roof was of slate, and every single slate knew its place and kept it. But, as so often happens, in looking for one thing he found another. There was a trap-door leading down into the house. And that trap-door was not fastened.