Emerging from the kitchen door, Laura stood and gazed in wonder as the two eerie figures sped by her, circled, ducked, dodged, flew madly on. This commonplace purlieu was become the scene of a witch-chase; the moonlight fell upon the ghastly flitting face of the pursued, uplifted in agony, white, wet, with fay eyes; also it illumined the unreal elf following close, a breeze-blown fantasy in rags.
“Kiss me some more, darling little boy!”
Laura uttered a sharp exclamation. “Stand still, Hedrick!” she called. “You must!”
Hedrick made a piteous effort to increase his speed.
“It’s Lolita Martin,” called Laura. “She must have her way or nothing can be done with her. Stand still!”
Hedrick had never heard of Lolita Martin, but the added information concerning her was not ineffective: it operated as a spur; and Laura joined the hunt.
“Stand still!” she cried to the wretched quarry. “She’s run away. She must be taken home. Stop, Hedrick! You must stop!”
Hedrick had no intention of stopping, but Laura was a runner, and, as he dodged the other, caught and held him fast. The next instant, Lolita, laughing happily, flung her arms round his neck from behind.
“Lemme go!” shuddered Hedrick. “Lemme go!”
“Kiss me again, darl——”