within
her.

But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn't be left. Other people, perhaps, but
not she. It wasn't possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never married,
that lovely fascinating girl.

"Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?"

"Remember her! As if I could forget her! It was one summer at the
Bay that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a blue"--no,
pink--"muslin frock, holding on a big cream"--no, black--"straw hat. But
it's years ago now."

"She's as lovely as ever, more so if anything."

Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the garden. As she gazed, she
saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the paddock beside their
palings as if he was coming straight towards her. Her heart beat. Who
was it? Who could it be? It couldn't be a burglar, certainly not a
burglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl's heart
leapt; it seemed to turn right over, and then to stop. She recognized
him.

"Good evening, Miss Beryl," said the voice softly.

"Good evening."

"Won't you come for a little walk?" it drawled.

Come for a walk--at that time of night! "I couldn't. Everybody's in bed.
Everybody's asleep."

"Oh," said the voice lightly, and a whiff of sweet smoke reached her.
"What does everybody matter? Do come! It's such a fine night. There's
not a soul about."

Beryl shook her head. But already something stirred in her, something
reared its head.

The voice said, "Frightened?" It mocked, "Poor little girl!"

"Not in the least," said she. As she spoke that weak thing within her
seemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously strong; she longed to
go!

And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said,
gently and softly, but finally, "Come along!"

Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the veranda, ran down the
grass to the gate. He was there before her.

"That's right," breathed the voice, and it teased, "You're not
frightened, are you? You're not frightened?"

She was; now she was here she was terrified, and it seemed to her
everything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered; the
shadows were like bars of iron. Her hand was taken.

"Not in the least," she said lightly. "Why should I be?"

Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back.

"No, I'm not coming any farther," said Beryl.

"Oh, rot!" Harry Kember didn't believe her. "Come along! We'll just go
as far as that fuchsia bush. Come along!"

The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over