is shoulders.
With a groan of resolution Robert wiped the sweat of fear from his
forehead and dropped lightly to the ground.

Tony joined him a moment later, breathing a little quickly from the
climb. Without a word he walked cautiously forward, Robert close behind,
until they reached a thicket of elder-bushes. Into the heart of this
they crept, making as little noise as possible. Presently, when Tony
judged they were so placed as to be secure from observation, themselves
able to observe, they halted. "May as well sit down," whispered Tony;
"quite likely we shall have to wait a bit." He spread the sack upon the
ground and the two of them established themselves upon it, clasping
their knees.

The night, most luckily, was fine. There was no hint of rain, and little
dew was falling. There was no moon, and the fitful starlight only served
to display the immensity of the darkness, the monstrous tree-shapes
looming threateningly on them, the overwhelming horror of The Quiet
House. Black against the dark background of the sky it reared its bulk
above them, seeming to menace the guilty pair with nightmare terrors,
starting ghoulish fancies, prosaic fears of the police, a child's dread
of the dark and all its goblins. It was so silent, powerful, unknown.
Mr. Hedderwick's flesh crept with a chill that was not climatic, and
instinctively he huddled closer to his companion.

"Can we smoke?" he breathed.

"No. _They_ might see the glow."

"They," of course meant Brown and his accomplice; but, uttered beneath
that lowering sky, those gloomy trees, in the atmosphere of intrigue and
hypothetical bloodshed, the words assumed an awful import to Mr.
Hedderwick. Romance cut with a keener edge across his quivering soul. He
was getting his fill of adventures, and with an unfeigned zeal he now
wished himself safe at Bloomsbury, even at the price of a Caudle's
welcome. To think that he, a middle-aged--no! an _old_ man, with a good
wife--yes! a _good_ wife, though sometimes a little overbearing--a
churchwarden of Saint Frideswide's and all the rest--to think that he
could be so harebrained and ungrateful as to embark on such an
enterprise! It was incredible: he must be dreaming.... No; it was real.
His right foot was in agony: it had gone to sleep.

"Ouch!" he said, stretching it. "What's the time, Mr. Wild?"

"Can't see. Daren't light a match. 'Fraid they're late. Shut up."

Time passed heavily to the unhappy man. A schoolboy, condemn