ed it over again the next
night, so I packed the bag and got it out here under this steamer-rug,
and asked for some money to buy presents when that embroidery woman
came from Lakewood. And I got it, of course, and bought some. She
said she was coming again. So I got more. Last night I dreamed it
again, and it looked like this gate, in the dream. That's three times.
Suzanne has those dreams, you know--she's like me, Suzanne--and they
always happen. So perhaps mine will. I tell you, because you're my
friend. And you would never have put me here."

Stanchon bit his lip. A sudden disgust of everything seized him.

"No, I wouldn't have put you here--once," he said slowly, then rose
abruptly.

"Hi, there, hold him! hold him, you fool!" he shouted. "Sit on his
head!"

The gardener's horse, beyond all control, now, was rolling furiously,
neighing and snapping. The man clung to the reins, keeping his
distance, but as the animal gained his feet with a lurch, his finger
slipped and he, too, rolled over and over down the little slope to the
gravelled path. Stanchon was after the horse before the attendant had
picked himself up and was calling him angrily.

"Don't be alarmed, miss," the man panted. "The doctor and I can settle
him!" and staggering to his feet made off to the rescue. As he ran,
something clinked and rattled about his boots, and a bunch of keys lay
quiet on the gravel.

Miss Mary rose instantly, walked to them and put her foot over them,
but the man was several yards away and Stanchon and the horse were
struggling towards the wagon. Miss Mary stooped down and lifted the
keys; all had metal tags and the one in her hand read, _East Gate, by
shrubbery_. She stepped to the ledge, drew out a fair sized black
hand-bag, tucked her umbrella under her arm and looked about her. The
nearest gate, set in dense shrubbery, lay in a direct line with the
ledge, and as she slipped behind it the two men and the horse were
wiped out of her vision. With her usual quiet, long step she reached
the gate, fitted the key, turned it and opened the gate. She closed it
behind her, considered a moment, then tossed the keys back among the
thick, glossy rhododendrons.

"Just as I dreamed," she muttered, "but where is the carriage?"

She stood on the edge of a road she had never seen, a quarter of a mile
from the great wrought-iron entrance that had closed behind her half a
year ago, and looked vaguely about her, at the