In the deepest shade of the old oaks, and where roses scented the air, in a dark angle at the rear of the garden under room eighteen, a rope hung down from an opened window—a rope knotted and looped for climbing. He pulled it; it was firmly, expertly secured. Roberta’s business of the evening—which evidently did not require the contents of the black box—was on. Andy stood silent in the perfect peace and stillness of the night, and listened as he had when first he stood at the station; but now he was certain of immediate happenings. Yet still through the village of Stoketon, quiet and unsuspecting serenity continued to reign. Andy walked out to the road. The lights of the little town were beginning to twinkle one by one; the good people of Stoketon were going to bed. He snuffed out his cigar and returned to watch beside the rope in the rear of the garden.
A light figure—a girl’s—leaped over the low palings; standing, panting, she listened a moment before she came farther. Andy, creeping back on the soft carpet of the thick turf, hid himself in the blackest shadow. The girl came on and reached the rope; she put her foot in a loop, and climbed up a yard or two; then stopped. He thought she had heard him as he stepped closer; but she had not. She descended to the ground and stood waiting for something; and a flash—a sudden yellow and crimson flame of fire—astonished the sky; a second after it, the low rumble of an explosion thudded the air. Andy, though he had been expecting it, startled and spun, surprised, trying to place the source of the flash and sound. But the girl only laughed.
“Roberta!” he hailed her cautiously.
Instinctively she seized the rope and started to climb it; then recognition of his voice seemed to register.
“Who’s that?”
“Me—Andy.”
“I know now. What do you want?”
He came closer—boldly. “You.”
The beginnings of alarm were breaking out about them; there arose shouts and calls and frightened cries.
“What was that, Roberta?” he demanded.