The Incredible Honeymoon. Nesbit Edith

pocket, this time, and he was glad to know he could lower the ladder by it – for the thud of a falling ladder would sound far in the night stillness. From the top of the wall he held the ladder while she mounted.

      "Sit here a moment," he said, "while I get rid of the ladder." He lowered it gently, drew the string up, leaped to the ground outside the wall, and held up his hands to her.

      "Jump," he whispered. "I'll catch you."

      But even as he spoke she had turned and was hanging by her hands. He let her do it her own way. She dropped expertly, landing with a little rebound. He was glad he had not tried to catch her. It would have been a poor beginning to their comradeship if he had, at the very outset, shown doubts of her competence to do anything she set out to do.

      They stood under the wall very near together.

      "What are you going to do?" she said.

      "I must get a car and take you away. Are you afraid to be left alone for a couple of hours?"

      "I – I don't think so," she said. "But where? Did you notice the lights as you got over the wall?"

      "Yes; they were still near the house."

      The two were walking side by side along the road now.

      "If you were any ordinary girl I should be afraid to leave you to think things over – for fear you should think you'd been rash or silly or something – and worry yourself about all sorts of nonsense, and perhaps end in bolting back to your hutch before I could come back to you. But since it's you – let's cut across the downs here – we'll keep close to the edge of the wood."

      Their feet now trod the soft grass.

      "How sensible of you to wear a dark cloak," he said.

      "Yes," she said, "a really romantic young lady in distress would have come in white muslin and blue ribbons, wouldn't she?"

      He glowed to the courage that let her jest at such a moment.

      "Where am I to wait?" she asked.

      "There's an old farm-house not far away," he said. "If you don't mind waiting there. Could you?"

      "Who lives there?"

      "Nobody. I happen to have the key. I was looking at it yesterday. It's not furnished, but I noticed some straw and packing-cases. I could rig you up some sort of lounge, but don't do it if you're afraid. If you're afraid to be left to yourself we'll walk together to Eastbourne. But if we do we're much more likely to be caught."

      "I'm not in the least afraid. Why should I be?" she said, and they toiled up the hill among the furze bushes in the still starlight.

      "What they'll do," she said, presently, "when they're sure I'm not in the park, is to go down to your inn and see if you're there."

      "Yes," he said, "I'm counting on that. That's why I said two or three hours. You see, I must be there when they do come, and the minute they're gone I'll go for the motor. Look here – I've got some chocolate that I got for a kiddy to-day; luckily, I forgot to give it to him; and here are some matches, only don't strike them if you can help it. Now, stick to it."

      They went on in silence; half-way up the hill he took her arm to help her. Then, over the crest of the hill, in a hollow of the downs there was the dark-spread blot of house and farm buildings. They went down the road. Nothing stirred – only as they neared the farm-yard a horse in the stable rattled his halter against the manger and they heard his hoofs moving on the cobbled floor of his stall. They stood listening. No, all was still.

      "Give me your hand," he said, and led her round to the side of the house. The key grated a little as he turned it in the lock. He threw back the door.

      "This is the kitchen," he said. "Stand just inside and I'll make a nest for you. I know exactly where to lay my hands on the straw."

      There was rustling in the darkness and a sound of boards grating on bricks. She stood at the door and waited.

      "Ready," he said.

      "They'll find me," she said. "We shall never get away."

      "Trust me for that," said he.

      "I must have been mad to come," he heard through the darkness.

      "We're all mad once in our lives," he said, cheerfully. "Now roll yourself in your cloak. Give me your hands – so." He led her to the straw nest he had made, and lowered her to it.

      "Do you wish you hadn't come?" he asked.

      "I don't know," she said.

      "I hope to Heaven I haven't misjudged you," he said, with the first trace of anxiety she had yet heard in his voice. "If you should be the kind of girl who's afraid of the dark – "

      The straw rustled as she curled herself more comfortably in her nest.

      "I'm not afraid," she said.

      "Look here," said he, "here's my match-box, but don't strike a light among the straw. The door into the house is locked and the key's on this side of the door. Can you come to the back door and lock it after me, and then find your way back to your nest?"

      "Yes," she said, and felt her way past the big copper to the door.

      "Sure you're not frightened?"

      "Quite," said she.

      "Then I'll go," said he, and went.

      She locked the door and crept back to the straw. He waited till its crackling told him that she had found her way back to her couch. Then he started for Jevington.

      And as he went he told himself that she was right. She had been mad to come, and he had been mad to let her come. But there was no going back now.

      There was no looking back, even. From the brow of the hill the road was down-hill all the way, and he ran, his rubber shoes patting almost noiselessly in the dust. At his inn the bolt yielded to his knife-point's pressure, the well-oiled lock let him in without a murmur, the stairs hardly creaked more than stairs can creak in their dark solitudes when we lie awake and listen to them and wonder… The night was as silent as a thought, and when at last the silence was shattered by the clatter of hoofs and the jangle of harness, Mr. Basingstoke's head turned a little on his pillow, not restlessly.

      He heard the clanging bell echo in the flagged passage; heard through the plaster walls the heavy awakening of his host, the scrape of a match, the hasty, blundering toilet; heard the big bar dropped from the front door; voices – the groom's voice, the host's voice, the aunt's voice.

      Then heavy steps on the stairs and a knock at his door.

      "Very sorry to disturb you, sir," came the muffled tones through the door, almost cringingly apologetic, "but could you get up, sir, just for a minute? Miss Davenant from the Hall wants a word with you – about your dawg, sir, as I understand. If you could oblige, sir – very inconvenient, I know, sir, but the Hall is very highly thought of in the village, sir."

      "What on earth – ?" said Mr. Basingstoke, very loudly, and got out of bed. "I'll dress and come down," he said.

      He did dress, to the accompaniment of voices below – replaced, that is, the collar, tie, and boots he had taken off – and then he began to pack, his mind busy with the phrases in which he would explain that a house in which these nocturnal disturbances occurred was not fit for the sojourning of… No, hang it all, that would not be fair to the landlord – he must find some other tale.

      When he had kept the lady waiting as long as he thought a man might have kept her who had really a toilet to make, he went slowly down. Voices sounded in the parlor, and a slab of light from its door lay across the sanded passage.

      He went in; the landlord went out, closing the door almost too discreetly.

      Mr. Basingstoke and the aunt looked at each other. She was very upright and wore brown gloves and a brown, boat-shaped hat with an aggressive quill.

      "You are here, then?" she said.

      "Where else, madam?" said Mr. Basingstoke.

      "I should like you," said the aunt, deliberately, "to be somewhere else within the next hour. I will make it worth your