Philip was near. There was at once joy and pain in the knowledge of that.
It might be that without any action of hers he would find out.
With this thought she fell asleep.
CHAPTER XII
THE MYSTERY OF THE LITTLE WOOD
August was a blazing month this year, and Philip, settled in his charming bungalow, found work almost impossible. Davis made iced coffee “enough to swim a ship,” he averred. But even with this stimulant, Philip found that ideas would not flow. He tried a new plan. He would lie in a hammock all day and doze and sleep by turns, and work all night.
The first night of this experiment proved a failure. He sat down to his American roll-desk (a gift from Uncle Robert), and spread out his sheets of manuscript. He would read over what he had done, and see if ideas would flow on. But his mind appeared to be a blank.
In desperation he got up and went out. It was near midnight, and a big moon rode serenely in the night-blue vault above.
His feet carried him, without mental consciousness of the fact, across the field that led to the White House.
When he was close to the little wood he heard a clicking sound, which arrested his attention. Curiosity caused him to seek for the cause.
The house was in total darkness, but within the wood was a faint light as from a stable lantern.