“She darena face the other thing.”
After a pause—“John, what do ye think she wanted the five-pun’ note for?”
“Ye can ask her.”
“She might ha’ got a safer place to hide it than she did—”
“Will ye hold your silly tongue, woman! Zeniths went down two-and-six yesterday. I’m going up to White Farm.”
* * * * *
Eleven hours later Kitty stood in her room ready to go. It was seven o’clock, but she was allowing a minute or two to pass in order to make sure of Sam’s being there. Her courage was at ebb, and she was very pale. Yet she hoped she might escape from the house without being noticed. The best of her worldly goods were contained in a bag and hold-all, part of her luggage of five years ago.
At last she felt she must go or faint. She opened the door softly and picked up her burdens. The bag was heavy. She was taking her father’s manuscripts. Stealthily she stepped across the small landing, and began to descend. But it was impossible to move, laden as she was, on that narrow, wooden stair without making considerable noise. And as she reached the bottom she was confronted by her uncle, who had just shut the shop for the night.
“What’s this?” he demanded with an awful frown, as he blocked the way to the front door.
Kitty’s heart all but failed her. She cleared her throat, wet her lips, and managed to utter the words—