Free The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan by Nancy; Springer

might have no second chance.
    Eyeing a sizeable bough that jutted in the proper direction, I swung my arm so that the bag described an arc in the air, and swung once again, then once more to make sure as I let go—
    The carpet-bag, as clumsy a fowl as ever flew, blundered aloft, seemed to hang vulture-like in the air for a moment, then fell—
    Yes!
    Oh, yes, thank goodness. The rope lay over the bough.
    Now I had only to manoeuvre until the carpet-bag wedged quite firmly in a fork of the branch. Then, at last, the rope would support me.
    Meanwhile, I felt my grip upon the trunk of the tree beginning to slip.
    Clinging for dear life with one arm whilst I feverishly employed the other, I pulled the rope towards me, watching the carpet-bag dangle at the other end—
    Never before in my life had I truly reached the limit of my strength, and never again do I wish to repeat the experience: quite without my permission, my limbs simply let go, and helplessly I fell.

C HAPTER THE T ENTH
     
    I BADLY WANTED TO SCREAM, AND UNDER THE circumstances I certainly had every right to do so. However, any such ululation might have attracted attention of a most unwelcome sort from the house.
    Somehow I retained sufficient presence of mind to utter only a squeak as I plummeted.
    Also, somehow, perhaps because my extremity of terror shot new strength into me—without taking credit for any conscious virtue in the matter, I am grateful to say that somehow I kept hold of the rope.
    Within a moment—a long moment, it seemed, but in fact only several horrified heartbeats—almost at once that blessed lifeline broke my fall. My carpet-bag had after all caught in the beech tree, and with a gasp I found myself swinging in midair, convulsively clutching the rope with both hands.
    However, as my strength was all but gone, I slipped downward.
    But even whilst swinging in such a manner, one can manipulate one’s arc by leaning one’s personage this way or that. Doing so, in a moment I landed with the rope still in my hands, and with the appearance of being in full control of my descent, giving barely a thump as I collapsed to the ground just where I wanted to be: near the edge of the sunk fence, but on the other side from where I had begun.
    “Enola, what in the name of Heaven are you doing?” whispered my brother explosively (yes, I assure you this is possible) from the ditch.
    “Is…it…not…obvious?” I panted, for how could he not see? I had crossed the ha-ha, and as soon as I had caught my breath, I would proceed to the house.
    “It is obvious only that our mother gave birth to an Amazon.” Shock vied with (I think and hope) admiration in his voice. “Why did you not tell me you had a rope? Secure it to something, quickly, then give it here so I can lift myself out of this confounded ditch.”
    His tone, quite accustomed to being obeyed before he could snap his fingers, failed to move me. Without, again, taking credit for any conscious virtue in the act of defiance, I responded not at all, simply because I had so thoroughly exhausted myself.
    “The rope, Enola!”
    “I think not,” I replied blandly, my breathing somewhat more under control. “After I get back, perhaps.”
    “What? Back from where?”
    “From locating and, if at all possible, freeing the unfortunate Lady Cecily. Would you happen to know in which room she is imprisoned?”
    “In the most inaccessible apex of the north tower.” He meant to discourage me, I think, and realised too late, as I sat up to dust myself off and prepare for action, that he had offered me an irresistible challenge instead. “Enola, you cannot!”
    “I am not sure I can,” I admitted, “but I certainly intend to try.”
    “It is simply not possible.”
    “Why? You intended to do it, before you ran afoul of the sunk fence. How did you plan to accomplish it?”
    “Assist me out of this damnable ditch, and perhaps I will show you.”
    My tone quite gentle in contrast to his, I said, “Not