had made them clear off.

On the other side, Bob's room looked into the yard, so that he could
see at night that all was right. He could also enter the stable by a
little side door, of which he alone had the key--that is, of course,
excepting my father's master key, which he always carried about with
him.

Now I had locked the big double gate myself--the one by which the
lorries and vans went and came. I had pushed home the bars. I had
even gone round to see that Bob had closed his door behind him. The
lock was a self-acting one, but Bob was apt to be careless.

I knew that my father, when he came, would let himself in by the big
yard gate, opening the right-hand half of it to bring in Dapple.

Well, at twelve o'clock mother and I went to bed--I to sleep, but with
half my clothes on me, in case father wanted anything when he should
come. For if he did he made no allowances. Everybody had to be on the
jump to get it.

I don't think, however, that mother slept much. Afterwards I heard
that she had never put out her light. It was, I think, about four
o'clock and the moon was setting when I heard a light shower of stones
and sand tinkle on my window.

I made sure that it was father, though what he wanted with me I could
not imagine. For he always took a pass key with him, and the extra
bolts of the house door were never shut when he was out anywhere on
business. He never liked any one to interfere with his comings and
goings, you see. So much so that we none of us durst so much as ask
him when he got back in the morning, for fear of having our heads
snapped off.

It was, however, Bob Kingsman who was below.

"Come down, Joe!" he whispered, "an' dinna let the mistress hear ye!"

I was at his side, with boots over my stockinged feet, almost before I
could get myself awake.

"Is it father come home?" I asked sleepily.

Bob said nothing, but led me round to the stables. And there, nosing
the lock of the inner door, saddled and bridled, stood Dapple, waiting
to be let into her own stall.

"Pass your hand over her," said Bob.

The mare was warm, the perspiration and the flecks of foam still upon
her. Bob held up his lantern. The bridle was fastened to a plaited
thong of her mane.

And the plait was the same peculiar one which my father had remarked in
the whip lash in the mail cart, the morning of the loss of poor Harry
Foster!

* * * * *

By a sort of instinct Bob op