There was a gate on each side of the hotel. That on the left led to the yard, with its row of stables and cart-sheds, and thence to a spacious area occupied by hay-stacks, piles of firewood, hen-houses, and all the miscellaneous lumber of an establishment half inn, half farm. The gate on the right opened into a bowling-green and skittle-alley. Behind these lay the kitchen garden and orchard. A hedge separated one section from the other, and entrance could be obtained to either from the back door of the hotel.
The radiance of a full moon now decked the earth in silver and black; in the shade the darkness was intense by contrast. The church clock struck ten.
Half a dozen youngsters crept silently into the stable yard. Angèle kicked up a dainty foot in a preliminary pas seul, but Evelyn stopped her unceremoniously. The village girl’s sharp ears had caught footsteps on the garden path beyond the hedge.
It was George Pickering, with his arm around Kitty’s shoulders. He was talking in a low tone, and she was giggling nervously.
“They’re sweetheartin’,” whispered a girl.
“So are we,” declared Frank Beckett-Smythe. “Aren’t we, Angèle?”
“Sapristi! I should think so. Where’s Martin?”
“Never mind. We don’t want him.”
“Oh, he will be furious. Let’s hide. There will be such a row when he goes home, and he daren’t go till he finds me.”
Master Beckett-Smythe experienced a second’s twinge at thought of the greeting he and his brother would receive at the Hall. But here was Angèle pretending timidity and cowering in his arms. He would not leave her now were he to be flayed alive.