Directly they turned beyond the sunk fence and rode towards the wood, he saw what they were after, marked their direction, came down the beech tree with the rapidity of a monkey and made through the wood to meet them.
“Oh! there you are,” said Mr Fanshawe. “Take the horses, Patsy, and lead them back to the stable. We will return on foot.”
“Yes, sir,” said Patsy, taking the bridles.
“This way,” said Dicky, leading Violet, who was holding her short habit in one hand. He led her amidst the trees which were sparsely set, till, on looking round, nothing was to be seen but the tree-boles, the withered fern under foot and above, through the tracery of the branches, the dull December day. Here Mr Fanshawe struck his head in a dramatic fashion. “I have been half-mad all the morning to have a word with you. Violet, it’s all up.”
“What?” asked Violet, half-alarmed at the distraction visible in her companion.
“Everything, the whole game. He and you are going away to-morrow morning.”
“Dicky! what on earth do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you. But first tell me, what did you hear last night?”
“I lay awake waiting, that is to say, I didn’t go to bed; just lay down with my clothes on. I heard the clock strike twelve; then a long time passed, and then,” said Violet, “I heard a most awful yell.”
“That was when we caught him. Go on.”