tion to that. Hurry, Dobbin. I begin to think that we have no time to lose."
They turned into Somerset Lane, hastened up the final slope and left the white horse tied to the cottage gate. Miss Miranda seemed to be still at work in the garden, so they deposited Dick and the package of eggs in the kitchen and went scurrying across the lawn to the gate in the wall. If they were to vanquish their common enemy before dark it was necessary to make some speed.
The key of the gate stood in the lock, but was stiff and rusty and creaked as David forced its turning. They hurried along the grassy path, stooping under the low-hanging branches and brushing aside the unpruned shrubs. For some reason they trod more quietly and spoke more softly when they came within the circle of the open lawn. It seemed very breathless and silent in the late afternoon sunlight, this beautiful place with its black, motionless pine trees, its gleaming pool and its empty, ruined house open to the sky.
"I wish I understood about all this," said Betsey, almost under her breath as they stood a moment by the still pool, "why the house was never rebuilt, why Miss Miranda works so hard and looks so worried and so sad."
"There's something strange about the place," David agreed, "and Miss Miranda and her father
