"Somebody turned 'em out—turned 'em out!" he shouted, and swept profanely by. The gate of the kennel-yard stood open. A familiar figure, running low, paused, and then sprinted nimbly along the paddock fence. A white sweater was distinguishable for a moment on a stone wall, then it followed a pair of enchanted heels into oblivion.
Time had been passing swiftly, and the shadows were deepening. I retraced my steps toward the terrace, hearing the cries of pursued and pursuers growing fainter. I had not yet gained a position from which I could see Cecilia, when a man appeared some distance ahead of me, walking guardedly in one of the garden-plots. He came uncertainly, pausing to glance about, yet evidently led toward the terrace by a definite purpose. All may be fair in love and war, but I confess to a feeling of pity for John Stewart Dick as I watched him slowly advancing to his fate. He was going boldly now, and I felt a sudden liking for him; nor can I believe that he was other than a manly fellow with sound brains and a good heart.
I reasoned, as I marked his approach to the terrace, that he had been loitering in the neighborhood, probably watching Cecilia and Pepperton, and when the architect retired, he had assumed that the sixth man had spoken. The appearance of his former comrades of the inn had doubtless disturbed him as it had me; then, thanks to the resourceful Hezekiah, they had been routed and the coast was clear. I think it likely that the sight of Cecilia sombrely pacing the terrace in the darkening shadows was too much for his philosophic poise, or like the rest of us who were actors in that comedy, he may have felt that any end was better than the doubts and uncertainties that beset us.
I watched him draw nearer to Cecilia as I have watched deer go down to a lake to drink. He would speak now; I was confident of it; and I stole round to the side entrance and sent word to Wiggins to go to the drawing-room and wait for me.
Miss Octavia and Pepperton still lingered over their tea-cups. The row made by the fugitives from her kennels had not, it seemed, penetrated to the library, and Miss Octavia bade me join the talk, which had to do, I remember, with some project for a national hall of fame that had incurred her characteristic displeasure. A hall of immortal rascals in pillories she thought far likelier to please the masses.
In fifteen minutes I saw Cecilia crossing the hall. She stopped where I could see her quite plainly, and thrust her hand into the pocket of her coat. Out flashed the silver note-book. She made a swift notation with the pencil that now, I knew, wrote the fate of the sixth man.
I went out and spoke to her, and walked beside her to the drawing-room door, where Hartley Wiggins was waiting.
Miss Octavia had risen when I returned to the library, and it was time to dress for dinner.
"Just a moment, Miss Hollister. Something of great interest is about to occur;" and I made excuses for detaining her for perhaps five minutes,—not more.
"You have never yet deceived me, Arnold Ames, and such is my confidence in you that if you tell me that something interesting will soon occur, I have no reason to doubt you. It is worth remembering, however, that fowl is not improved by prolonged roasting."