ad gone back to the
window and lifted the curtain again. "But _where_ in the world?"

"To Holmness."

"'Olmness? . . . It's crazed you are."

"I am not crazed at all. It's all quite easy, I tell you--easy and
simple. They've left the boat afloat--I've found out how to get to
her--and the night is as still as can be. . . . Are you coming?"

"You'll be drowned, I tell you--drowned or lost, for sure--"

"Are you coming?"

He did not reason with her, or she would have resisted. He spoke very
calmly, and for the first time she felt his will mastering hers.
One thing was certain--she could not let him go alone. . . . She threw
back the bedclothes, slipped out, and began to dress, protesting all the
while against the folly of it.

To reach the ground was mere child's-play, as he had promised. From the
broad window-ledge to the slate tank was an easy drop, and from the tank
they lowered themselves to a gravelled pathway that led around this
gable of the house. They made the least possible noise, for fear of
awakening the farm-dogs; but these slept in an out-house of the great
farmyard, which lay on the far side of the building. Here the moon
shone into a diminutive garden with box-bordered flower-beds, and half a
dozen bee-skips in row against a hedge of privet, and at the end of the
gravelled walk a white gate glimmering.

Arthur Miles tip-toed to the gate, lifted its latch very cautiously, and
held it aside for Tilda to pass. They were free.

"Of all the madness!" she muttered as they made for the coombe.

The boy did not answer. He knew the way pretty well, for this was their
fourth journey. But the moonlight did not reach, save here and there,
the hollows through which the path wound, and each step had to be
carefully picked.

"Look 'ere," she essayed again after a while, "I won't say but this is a
lark, if on'y you'll put that nonsense about 'Olmness out of yer mind.
We can go down to the cottage an' make believe it's yer ancesteral
'ome--"

"Wh'st!" he commanded sharply, under his breath.

She listened. Above the murmur of the stream her ears caught a soft
pattering sound somewhere in the darkness behind.

"What is it?" She caught at his arm.

"I don't know. . . . Yes I do. 'Dolph?--is it 'Dolph? Here then--
_good_ dog!"

And sure enough 'Dolph came leaping out of the darkness, heaven knows
by what instinct guided. 'Dolph, too wise to utter a single bark, but
springing to lick their han