“It would take a long time; people are always passing.”
“People do not pass in the evening,” murmured Greta, “because the gate at our end is always shut.”
Christian rose.
“We will come this evening, just before the gate is shut.”
“But, Chris, how shall we get back again?”
“I don't know; I mean to have the pictures.”
“It is not a high gate,” murmured Greta.
After dinner the girls went to their room, Greta bearing with her the big screw-driver of Fritz. At dusk they slipped downstairs and out.
They arrived at the old house, and stood, listening, in the shadow of the doorway. The only sounds were those of distant barking dogs, and of the bugles at the barracks.
“Quick!” whispered Christian; and Greta, with all the strength of her small hands, began to turn the screws. It was some time before they yielded; the third was very obstinate, till Christian took the screw-driver and passionately gave the screw a starting twist.