All mazes, it has been pointed out previously, are ultimately solvable. There is the random mouse approach, and there is wall following, there are the Pledge and the Trémaux. But mazes on the Escapement were not always static, and the unwary traveller using one such method might find that the maze could shift unexpectedly around them. The three men kept trying doors on their way, and on one such corridor the third door on the left opened and they disappeared briefly into a large wardrobe filled with heavy fur coats, much eaten by moths. The Stranger felt a cold draught, and made his way deeper into the wardrobe, to seek an exit, and for a moment he smelled fresh pines, and distant snow; but he found nothing but the back of the wardrobe and he retreated back with a vague sense of loss.

“We need to find a way out of here,” he said.

“What are those things?” the Kid said. “My head hurts.”

“You hit the punch?”

“Well, it was free.”

“Only yourself to blame, then.”

“When are we going to rob the mine and get the treasure?” the Kid said.

The Conjurer and the Stranger exchanged amused glances.

“How do you propose carrying it all away, kid?” the Conjurer said.

“I don’t know, Dad. In a cart or something.”

“I don’t think you’ve quite grasped the scale of the problem, kid,” the Conjurer said. “What happens when a place is too big to be robbed?”

“I don’t know, what?”

“If you can’t rob it, you have to own it,” the Conjurer said.

“Own it? What are you going to do with a mine?”

They pondered the question. Beyond the door, they could hear the three girls call out, sometimes distant, sometimes near. Their voices echoed down the corridors, multiplying and trailing off on their own.

“There’s a way out,” the Conjurer said. “Come on.”

They listened at the door until the girls’ voices, more frustrated now, faded into the distance. The Conjurer opened the door cautiously. “Clear.”

They stepped out into the corridor.

“Look for chalk marks,” the Conjurer said.

“You marked the way?”

“This ain’t my first time at the rodeo.”

No maze is unsolvable. But it is a forward-thinking person who makes sure to mark their passage as they go into one. And a conjurer is never short of chalk.

They ran. But this time, they ran with purpose along the endless corridors, searching for a mark. Soon they found one, and then all that remained was to follow the trail. On and on they went, while the wails and cries and laughter of the General’s three daughters gradually receded behind. Until at last they burst out of the front doors of Hole Manor, and into silver moonlight.

They stopped, and stared. For this was Hole, but this was not the place that they had left when they first entered the mansion. This was not . . . Hole.