A few minutes before eight he escaped from his companions and strolled toward The Elms. The house was not like the suburban villa which stands in the center of a row and proudly styles itself Oakdene. It was hidden in a cluster of lordly elms, and already the day was so far spent that the entrance gate was invisible save at a few yards’ distance.
The nearest railway station was situated two miles along this very road. A number of slow-moving country people were sauntering to the station, where the north train was due at 9:05 P.M. Another train, that from the south, arrived at 9:20, and would be the last that night. A full moon was rising, but her glories were hidden by the distant hills. There was no wind; the weather was fine and settled. The Elmsdale Feast was lucky in its dates.
Martin waited near the gate and heard the church clock chime the hour. Two boys on bicycles came flying toward the village. They were the Beckett-Smythes. They slackened pace as they neared The Elms.
“Wonder if she’ll get out to-night?” said Ernest, the younger.
“There’s no use waiting here. She said she’d dodge out one evening for certain. If she’s not in the village, we’d better skip back before we’re missed,” said the heir.
“Oh, that’s all right. Pater thinks we’re in the grounds, and there won’t be any bother if we show up at nine.”
They rode on. The quarter-hour chimed, and Martin became impatient.
“She was humbugging me, as usual,” he reflected. “Well, this time I’m pleased.”
An eager voice whispered:
“Hold the gate! It’ll rattle when I climb over. They’ve not heard me. I crept here on the grass.”