ad in the
park gradually left us. Stumbling over flower beds, running afoul of
a sun-dial, groping our way savagely along hedges and thorny banks, we
reached the steps finally and climbed the terrace.

It was then that Hotchkiss fell over one of the two stone urns which,
with tall boxwood trees in them, mounted guard at each side of the door.
He didn't make any attempt to get up. He sat in a puddle on the brick
floor of the terrace and clutched his leg and swore softly in Government
English.

The occasional relief of the lightning was gone. I could not see an
outline of the house before me. We had no matches, and an instant's
investigation showed that the windows were boarded and the house closed.
Hotchkiss, still recumbent, was ascertaining the damage, tenderly
peeling down his stocking.

"Upon my soul," he said finally, "I don't know whether this moisture is
blood or rain. I think I've broken a bone."

"Blood is thicker than water," I suggested. "Is it sticky? See if you
can move your toes."

There was a pause: Hotchkiss moved his toes. By that time I had found a
knocker and was making the night hideous. But there was no response save
the wind that blew sodden leaves derisively in our faces. Once Hotchkiss
declared he heard a window-sash lifted, but renewed violence with the
knocker produced no effect.

"There's only one thing to do," I said finally. "I'll go back and try to
bring the buggy up for you. You can't walk, can you?"

Hotchkiss sat back in his puddle and said he didn't think he could stir,
but for me to go back to town and leave him, that he didn't have any
family dependent on him, and that if he was going to have pneumonia he
had probably got it already. I left him there, and started back to get
the horse.

If possible, it was worse than before. There was no lightning, and only
by a miracle did I find the little gate again. I drew a long breath of
relief, followed by another, equally long, of dismay. For I had found
the hitching strap and there was nothing at the end of it! In a lull of
the wind I seemed to hear, far off, the eager thud of stable-bound feet.
So for the second time I climbed the slope to the Laurels, and on the
way I thought of many things to say.

I struck the house at a new angle, for I found a veranda, destitute of
chairs and furnishings, but dry and evidently roofed. It was better than
the terrace, and so, by groping along the wall, I tried to make my way
to Hotchkiss. That