His little fat legs twinkled along the path towards a tool-shed that stood in the angle of the fence at the bottom of the garden. He pulled the door open and shut it behind them.
“Good gracious!” said Mr. Foster, and mopped his brow.
“Oh, thank you,” murmured the girl, with a little sob.
They gazed at one another.
“Who are after you?” panted Mr. Foster. “The—the Man with the Broken Nose?”
“Yes, and the whole gang with him,” replied Dora, who did not believe in doing things by halves. For sisters, Dora and Laura had much in common.
“Whew!” said Mr. Foster, thrilled to the core. “How many of them?”
“Seventeen! Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do?”
Mr. Foster possessed himself of one of her hands and began to pat it. Mr. Foster was the sort of person who does pat attractive young women. “I don’t think they’ll bother you here,” he said, swelling slightly. “You just leave things to me, my dear. I’ll look after you. What have you done, then? Run away?”
“Yes, I simply couldn’t stand it any longer.” Dora made use of a life-like shudder to withdraw her hand. “The constant murders! Oh, it was terrible. They do get on your nerves after a time, you know, murders do. Especially when one is only a woman.” She contrived to look extremely helpless and appealing.