“The trap-door down into the Cradle from the Raven’s Tower.”

“But that’s been closed for a hundred years or more,” Catriona said.

“I know, but you and I might manage to open it. I expect it will be a pretty hefty job, but I don’t see why you and I shouldn’t be able to manage it. And if we could it would be a pretty good score,” Mary said, gruffly gloating.

The Chieftain had just ordered an attempt to be made on the door, with a crowbar, and the males one after another were trying their strength, each no doubt hoping he would be the lucky one to force an entrance and win the applause of Carrie and Myrtle Royde.

“Come on, Catriona,” her sister urged. “If we don’t succeed nobody will know and if we do we really will have a hot score.”

The old guardroom of the Raven’s Tower was cluttered, not only with the rubbish which had been removed from the Cradle when Ben Nevis fitted it up as a show dungeon some twenty-odd years ago but with the rubbish which had accumulated in it ever since. The Glenbogle Castle of this date had not heard the broadcast appeal of the Minister of Waste. When it did the contents of the old guardroom would make one of the most notable contributions in the country to the nationwide effort to save its rubbish.

While caber, beam and crowbar assaulted the door of the Cradle below, up in the old guardroom Catriona and Mary worked strenuously to clear away the rubbish from that part of the floor where they judged the trap-door was likely to be found. They made a good deal of noise, but people outside heard nothing, so much louder were the operations in the yard that Ben Nevis was directing.

“Eureka,” Catriona suddenly growled.

“Well, it’s pretty hot work,” her sister answered. “One’s bound to reek a bit.”

“You ass, I mean I’ve found it.”

“Found what?”

“Good lord, Mary, you are a thickhead. The trap-door, of course.”

“Oh, the trap-door? Oh, stout stuff!” Mary exclaimed.

The joy of flinging sacks about and shifting a chaff-cutter which had been waiting in a West Highland dream for eleven years to be mended had taken possession of her. In the zest of being hefty she had forgotten for a moment why she was being hefty.

“Well, seeing it was your idea to find this trap-door,” Catriona growled, “you are a bit absent-minded.” She bent down and gave a tug at the iron ring of the trap-door, “Phew! This blighter is going to take some shifting.”

The eyes of Mary lighted up as with a grunt of determination she plunged down to grasp the ring. She knew that the trap-door hoped to prove itself a worthy antagonist of her heftiest heftiness.

“Come up, you brute,” she growled. “Come up, will you. Get a grip on it, Catriona, you slacker.”