First John Stannard jumped out of the car, from the front seat. Then Ricky Fleet from behind the wheel. Then, from the back, Martin Drake, Ruth Callice, and — still to the surprise and very faint discomfort of the others—'young’ Dr. Hugh Laurier.
"I am extremely grateful…" Dr. Laurier began. But his voice rang out loudly, and he stopped. The clock on the car's dashboard indicated the time as twenty-five minutes to midnight
Footsteps swished among weeds. Someone laughed nervously.
"Got the lamps?" called Ricky's voice. "Here," came the husky assurance of Stannard; and he chuckled.
"Shall I leave these car-lights on?" Martin demanded.
"Yes," assented Stannard's voice. "After all, three of you will be leaving in twenty-five minutes."
Seen only by car-lamps, magnified by darkness and a quarter-moon, the grey-brick roundness of Pentecost appeared immense. Its air of intense desolation was heightened, towards the north-west, by the ghost-village which still straggled towards its wall.
When men fretted out their sentences here, when they heated their brains and assured everybody they would be free next week, there grew up round it that huddle of cottages which lie near any country prison. Here lived the married officers, the non-convict staff, their wives and relatives and children: all the residue from that force which made the machine-shop hum, the food-tins bang, the endless line shuffle round and round the exercise yard. These houses, now, were as dead as Pentecost
"Is everybody ready?" asked Stannard.
All five had gathered round the car-lights. Stannard had told them to wear old clothes: which Ruth interpreted as meaning black slacks and a red sweater, Stannard his ungainly plus-fours, the others sports-coats and flannels.