The night was dark, misty; a dense white
stream covered the park, strangely thick and wetting. Leaving his
motor under the wall some distance from the door where it was hidden by
creepers overhanging, he concealed himself in one of the thick
embrasures and watched. He was well protected by his motor coat, light
but warm and water-proof.

He looked at his wrist watch. The illuminated figures showed it was
eight o'clock. He wondered at the pitchy blackness of the night,
unusual for the time of the year.

Listening intently he heard the door latch click; then it swung back
with a bang. It was opened again and Jane called out:

"Don't be late, Father. It's a bad night. I don't care to be left
alone."

"I'll be back in an hour, my lass, and bring Abel Head along with me.
He's plenty of time on his hands with these new restrictions in force."
It was Tom Thrush's voice; he was going to the Sherwood Inn. What a
stroke of luck! Such a chance would not occur again.

Carl Meason chuckled savagely as he heard Tom's footsteps die away in
the distance. Creeping out he felt his way back to the motor along the
wall, made sure all was right; the lights were low and covered by a
dark protection which entirely obliterated them. He had taken every
precaution and knew the way in the dark; he had only to keep to the
road and get clear away with Jane. Nobody was likely to be motoring on
such a night. He was still disguised. He wondered if she would
recognize his voice, he could alter it cleverly.

He banged at the door as though he had stumbled against it in the dark.
Jane was nervous, more so than she had been since her return. The
noise startled her; it could not be her father returning, still there
was a chance.

She listened. The knock came again, louder. She opened the cottage
door; the light from the lamp shone on the outer door leading to the
road.

"Who's there?" she asked, bravely, although her heart quaked.

"I've lost my way. I want to get to Little Trent," said Carl, in a
muffled voice.

"Go straight on," she said; "it's not far."

"Who lives here?"

"Thomas Thrush, Captain Chesney's gamekeeper."

"That's lucky; I know him. May I come in for a few minutes? I'm
tired."

She hardly knew what to say. If she refused he could force his way in;
whoever he was, she thought it better to grant his request; it was a
bad night to be out.

She opened the door and Carl stepped through. He walked into