Part 2 (2/2)

Now was the time to show what metal I was made of. My spirits rose as I felt I could rely on myself to be cautious, resourceful, bold. I sat on, outwardly composed, but inwardly excited, straining my ears for a sign that the fugitive was in the porch. I supposed I should presently hear a light tap on my parlour window, which was close to the outer door.

But none came. More than an hour pa.s.sed. It had long been perfectly dark. What could have happened? Had the poor creature been dogged and waylaid by those two policemen after all? Was it possible that they had seen us standing together at the stile, where she had so inconsiderately joined me for a moment? At last I became so nervous that I went to the outer door, opened it softly, and looked out. She was so near me that I very nearly screamed.

”How long have you been here?” I whispered.

”Close on an hour.”

”Why didn't you tap on the window or something? I was waiting to let you in.”

”I dared not do that. It might have been the kitchen window for all I knew, and then your servant would have seen me.”

”But the kitchen is the other side.”

”Indeed! And where is the stable?”

”At the bottom of the garden, away from the road.”

”How are we going to get to it?”

”We can only get to it through the garden, now the back way is closed. I closed it because the village children----”

”Had not you better shut the door? If any one pa.s.sed down the road, they would see it was open.”

”It's as dark as pitch.”

”Yes, but there's a little light from within. I can see you from outside quite plainly standing in the doorway.”

I led her indoors, and locked and bolted the door.

”What is this room?”

”The houseplace. I have my meals here. I live very primitively. My idea is----”

”Then your servant may come in at any moment to lay your supper.”

I could not say that she seemed nervous or frightened, but the way she cut me short showed that she was so in reality. I was not offended, for I am the first to make allowance when rudeness is not intentional. I led the way hastily into the parlour.

”She never comes in here,” I said rea.s.suringly, ”after she has once brought in the lamp. I am supposed to be working, and must not be disturbed.”

”I'm not fit to come in,” she said.

And in truth she was not. She was caked with mud and dirt from head to foot, an appalling figure in the lamplight. The rain dripped from her hair, her sinister clothing, her whole person. She looked as if she must have hidden in a wet ditch. I gazed horror-struck at my speckless matting and pale Oriental rugs. I had never allowed a child or dog in the house for fear of the matting, except of course my poor Lindo, who had died a few months previously, and whom I had taught to wipe his feet on the mat.

A ghost of a smile twitched her grey mouth.

”Is not that the _Times_?” she said. ”Spread it out four thick, and lay it on the floor.”

I did so, and she stepped carefully on to it.

”Now,” she said, standing on a great advertis.e.m.e.nt of a universal history--”now that I am not damaging the furniture, pull yourself together and _think_. How am I to get to the stable? I can't stop here.”

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