“And hang it, how easy it was after all,” said Alan, who could not get over this point. Then, while awaiting the coming of Marie, he surveyed the well. There it was, standing amongst the still leafless trees, and amidst the rank slushy grasses, a circle of stone, surmounted by the wooden canopy with its mellow red roof. The windlass was rotten with age, and the rope, formerly used to wind up the bucket, was conspicuous by its absence, as was the bucket itself. Fuller peered into the depths and saw the water far down twinkling like a star in the uncertain light, which filtered to the depths. The sides of the well were of massive masonry, green with moss and slime, while the circle above ground was overgrown with herbage. In the hope of finding the marked stone, he began to tear away the grasses and briars and ivy, scratching his hands considerably as he did so. To save these he put on his stout deerskin gloves, which he fortunately had slipped into his pocket. Marie found him thus occupied. “We have a crowbar after all,” she cried, bending under the article she mentioned, along with a spade and a coil of rope. “One of the workmen who was building a new wall at the back of the house, left it a year ago.” “Why have you brought the rope, Marie?” “I thought you might have to go down the well,” she said quickly, “we can fasten it to the windlass.” Alan eyed the same dubiously. “I fear it’s too rotten to support us, or rather to support me,” he remarked; “and we may not have to explore the depths of the well.” “The pool, the pool,” cried Marie, throwing down her load; “why do you drag away those grasses, Alan?” He explained, and she saw the necessity of helping, although to save her tender hands he transferred his gloves to her. The two, buoyed up with the hope of treasure went to work with a will and soon the cemented circle of gray stones round the well was quite bare. Alan searched, as did Marie, but on no stone, could they find the desired red triangle. “It must be down the well,” said Fuller with a shrug; “but I’m not going to trust that rotten windlass. “Tie the rope to this tree,” said Marie pointing to a young beech which was growing close to the opening, and, as Alan thought this was an excellent idea—he gave her a kiss for the suggestion—he fastened the rope to its trunk and then made a slipknot, which he bound under his arms. “Now dear take a turn on the rope round the tree and lower me gently, that will prevent the strain being too great.” “I hope so,” said Miss Inderwick, doing as she was told. “I don’t want you to be drowned.” Alan slipped over the edge of the well, and the rope grew taunt from himself to the beech, where the several twists round the trunk stopped the drag being too great on Marie. Nevertheless she felt anxious when she saw her lover disappear into the dark depths. “Oh do take care, darling,” she cried holding on to the rope at the part beyond the twists round the beech-tree trunk, “do take care.”