“Where can I get in?” cried the owner of the face, in tones of unmistakable agitation. “They’re after me. They’re—oh, isn’t there a gate or something? Quickly, please!”
“There is a gate,” admitted the perplexed Mr. Foster. “But——”
“Then open it! Don’t you understand? It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Is it?” asked Mr. Foster wonderingly. “Are you ill?”
“No, no! Don’t you recognise me? It was I who spoke to you in the garden the night before last; who told you——”
“Good Heavens!” Mr. Foster gasped. “So it is. I thought you seemed very familiar. I mean, your voice sounded familiar. But——”
“Open the gate!” said the girl tersely.
Mr. Foster ran along the fence and did so. The girl tumbled through and stood for a moment, panting, one hand to her heart.
“Safe!” she muttered. “Oh, thank God! But quick—hide me! They’ll be here any minute.”
“The deuce they will!” squeaked Mr. Foster.