"Am I late?" he asked, as he came forward.
"I say, turn that beastly light the other way," complained Windomshire, half blinded. "I thought no one but robbers carried dark lanterns."
"The darker the deed, the darker the lantern," said Mr. Hooker, genially. "Good-evening, madam. Are we the only ones here?" He was very matter-of-fact and business-like; Anne loathed him on the instant.
"We're all here but the minister and the other witness. I'll cough again—although it hurts me to do it."
He coughed thrice, but instead of a response in kind, three sharp whistles came from the trees at the left.
"What's that?" he gasped. "Has he forgotten the signal?"
"Maybe he is trying to cough," said Hooker, "and can't do any better than wheeze. It's this rotten weather."
"No, it was a whistle. Good Heavens, Anne—it may be detectives."
"Detectives!" exclaimed Mr. Hooker, hoarsely. "Then this is no place for me. Excuse me, I'll just step around the corner." As he scurried off, he might have been heard to mutter to himself: "They've been hounding me ever since that job in the Cosgrove cemetery. Damn 'em, I wonder if they think I'm up here to rob the grave of one of these jays." From which it may be suspected that Mr. Hooker had been employed in the nefarious at one time or another.
"Detectives, Harry?" gasped Anne. "Why should there be detectives? We're not criminals."