floor, just wide of the cupboard entrance, and it stood burning as
though nothing had happened.

With pain which surely must be worse than any pain of death, he
heaved himself back and on to the bedroom floor again. The cascade
of plaster, timber, masonry, must (he judged) have shot itself
straight down into his parlour below.

He picked up the candle, and warily--while his leg wrung him with
torture at every step--crept down the stairs to explore.

The parlour door opened inwards. He thrust it open for a short way
quite easily. Then of a sudden it jammed: but it left an aperture
through which he could squeeze himself. He did so, and held the
candle aloft.

While he stared, first at a hole in the ceiling, then at the "scree"
which had broken through it and lay spread, fan-shaped, on the solid
floor at his feet, he heard a footstep, and Mrs Penhaligon's voice in
the passage without.

"Mr Nanjivell! Is that Mr Nanjivell?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Oh, what has happened?"

"Nothing, ma'am. Only a downrush of soot in the chimney," answered
Nicky-Nan, gasping: for the heap of dust and mortar at his feet lay
scattered all over with golden coins!