brick path, mounted his
horse and put it to a gallop at once. Clack, clack, clack--clacking
fainter and fainter into the distance--and he was gone.

When she realised that the thing was true, the effect upon her of her
sense of relief was that the growing likelihood of a second swoop into
darkness died away, but one curious sob lifted her chest as she leaned
back against the rough growth behind her. As she changed her position
for a better one she felt the jagged pain again and knew that in the
tenseness of her terror she had actually for some time felt next to
nothing of her hurt. She had not even been cold, for the hedge behind
and over her and the barricade before had protected her from both wind
and rain. The grass beneath her was not damp for the same reason. The
weary thought rose in her mind that she might even lie down and sleep.
But she pulled herself together and told herself that this was like the
temptation of believing in the nightmare. He was gone, and she had a
respite--but was it to be anything more? She did not make any attempt to
leave her place of concealment, remembering the strange things she had
learned in watching him, and the strange terror in which Rosalie lived.

"One never knows what he will do next; I will not stir," she said
through her teeth. "No, I will not stir from here."

And she did not, but sat still, while the pain came back to her body
and the anguish to her heart--and sometimes such heaviness that her
head dropped forward upon her knees again, and she fell into a stupefied
half-doze.

From one such doze she awakened with a start, hearing a slight click of
the gate. After it, there were several seconds of dead silence. It was
the slightness of the click which was startling--if it had not been
caused by the wind, it had been caused by someone's having cautiously
moved it--and this someone wishing to make a soundless approach had
immediately stood still and was waiting. There was only one person who
would do that. By this time, the mist being blown away, the light of
the moon began to make a growing clearness. She lifted her hand and
delicately held aside a few twigs that she might look out.

She had been quite right in deciding not to move. Nigel Anstruthers
had come back, and after his pause turned, and avoiding the brick path,
stole over the grass to the cottage door. His going had merely been an
inspiration to trap her, and the wood and matches had been intended to
make a bea