Manila halted and pulled back. “Phœbe, she’ll come after me.”
“Don’t you worry. I’ve seen lots worse than her.”
“Worse’n her?” repeated Manila, incredulous.
“In the pictures. And I’ve noticed that the hero or the heroine always comes out ahead.”
Manila allowed herself to be led across the rear lawn toward the Blair house, but she was not convinced. “This ain’t no movie,” she reminded.
“It’s better than a movie,” asserted Phœbe, “because it’s honest-to-goodness true!”
Manila looked back over a shoulder. Her concern was growing fast. “But what if she seen us run away?”
Phœbe was turning a corner on her way to the library windows. The library windows were low of sill. At this season of the year they were wide open. Of course all the outer doors of the house were open, too,—at least they were not locked. But Phœbe had no intention of entering her home in any prosaic fashion. No, indeed. Heroines of the screen always made their exits and entrances romantically. She meant to carry out this drama in true moving-picture fashion.
She lowered her voice. “Who cares?” she demanded scornfully. “It was all just perfect. There was the window, and the ladder——”
“Ladder?” challenged Manila.