There was a garden to that house. Jim Vernon and Dorothy Gilbert were walking side by side down one of the paths. Sir Derwent Dewsnap had gone over to Newcaster, to perform that operation; and Mr Plashett had gone with him, in order that he might be close at hand, and ready for any eventuality. It was an hour which seemed big with fate to Dorothy; and the youth would whistle. She bore with the sound till it could be borne no longer. Had he been an observant youth he would have seen what she was suffering; but observation of that kind was not his strongest point. So at last she was constrained to drop him a hint.
"I should be so much obliged if you wouldn't make that noise."
"Noise? What noise?"
"I suppose you call it whistling."
"Suppose I call it whistling? It is whistling, isn't it?"
"Then, if it is, please don't. If you only knew how I keep thinking of what that man is doing."
"What man?"
"Sir Derwent Dewsnap."
"Isn't he a freak? My hat, I shouldn't care to have him cut chunks off me; it gave me the creeps only to hear him chatter."
"If his hand were to slip; if anything were to happen; if he were to make the least mistake; life would be all over for me; and I'm only just beginning to understand what it means."