er the Scholar (who corrects my
proof-sheets) calls one of the rusinurby sort--the front facing a street
and the back looking over a turfed garden with a lime tree or two, a
laburnum, and a lawn-tennis court marked out, its white lines plain to
see in the starlight. At the end of the garden a door, painted dark
green, led into a narrow lane between high walls, where, if two persons
met, one had to turn sideways to let the other pass. The entrance to
this lane was cut in two by a wooden post about the height of your hip,
and just beyond this, in the high road, George was waiting for us with
the dog-cart.

We had picked the usual time--the dinner-hour. It had just turned dark,
and the church-clock, two streets away, was chiming the quarter after
eight, when Peter and I let ourselves in by the green door I spoke of
and felt along the wall for the gardener's ladder that we knew was
hanging there. A simpler job there never was. The bedroom window we had
marked on the first-floor stood right open to the night air; and inside
there was the light of a candle or two flickering, just as a careless
maid will leave them after her mistress has gone down to dinner. To be
sure there was a chance of her coming back to put them out; but we could
hear her voice going in the servants' hall as we lifted the ladder and
rested it against the sill.

"She's good for half a hour yet," Peter whispered, holding the ladder
while I began to climb; "but if I hear her voice stop, I'll give the
signal to be cautious."

I went up softly, pushed my head gently above the level of the sill, and
looked in.

It was a roomy place with a great half-tester bed, hung with curtains,
standing out from the wall on my right. The curtains were of chintz, a
dark background with flaming red poppies sprawling over it; and the
further curtain hid the dressing-table, and the candles upon it and the
jewel-case that I confidently hoped to stand upon it also. A bright
Brussels carpet covered the floor, and the wall-paper, I
remember--though for the life of me I can't tell why--was a pale grey
ground, worked up to imitate watered silk, with sprigs of gilt
honeysuckle upon it.

I looked round and listened for half a minute. The house was still as
death up here--not a sound in the room or in the passages beyond. With a
nod to Peter to hold the ladder firm I lifted one leg over the sill,
then the other, dropped my feet carefully upon the thick carpet and went
quickly rou