Edmund has seen the girl at his own hearth, and he says now that he has been calling the wrong one for four years. The candle is at its third mark. Kit's trunk is in the cellar behind the old black door, and you have the key.

Mark Four: The Sallowmere Ritual

The old door at the head of the cellar stair opens to the key as if it had been waiting. Kit's trunk is at the bottom of the steps, khaki tin with his name stencilled on the lid, where the coalmen left it four years ago.

Inside, under his greatcoat, is a letter addressed to his father and never posted, dated the thirtieth of October 1918, the night before he was killed. It is short:

Dad. I couldn't put it in a letter, the censor reads them all. I left it on my last leave, where we used to leave things. You know how the game goes:

Whose was it?
  His who is gone.
Who shall have it?
  He who stayed.
Where was the sun?
  Over the fire that
  never went out.
How was it stepped?
  North by one,
  west by one and by one,
  south by one and by one,
  and so under.

Sir Arthur reads it over your shoulder and goes pink with pleasure. It is his own Musgrave Ritual, he says, turned inside out by a boy who must have read it under the bedclothes. He wrote that story in 1893. He did not think anybody played it any more.

Kit drew the house in the margin, the ground floor, three rows of four:

Library Hall    Dining  Front
Darkrm  Passage Kitchen Scull.
Cellar  Boot    Larder  Back

Step out Kit's ritual on the plan of the house.