I knew that my father, when he came, would let himself in by the big yard gate, opening the right-hand half of it to bring in Dapple.
Well, at twelve o'clock mother and I went to bed—I to sleep, but with half my clothes on me, in case father wanted anything when he should come. For if he did he made no allowances. Everybody had to be on the jump to get it.
I don't think, however, that mother slept much. Afterwards I heard that she had never put out her light. It was, I think, about four o'clock and the moon was setting when I heard a light shower of stones and sand tinkle on my window.
I made sure that it was father, though what he wanted with me I could not imagine. For he always took a pass key with him, and the extra bolts of the house door were never shut when he was out anywhere on business. He never liked any one to interfere with his comings and goings, you see. So much so that we none of us durst so much as ask him when he got back in the morning, for fear of having our heads snapped off.
It was, however, Bob Kingsman who was below.
"Come down, Joe!" he whispered, "an' dinna let the mistress hear ye!"
I was at his side, with boots over my stockinged feet, almost before I could get myself awake.
"Is it father come home?" I asked sleepily.
Bob said nothing, but led me round to the stables. And there, nosing the lock of the inner door, saddled and bridled, stood Dapple, waiting to be let into her own stall.
"Pass your hand over her," said Bob.