So they locked up the garden room, and went through the rain to the gate, beginning their progress by a very artistically-tuned laugh from Lucilla, and another, not nearly so good, from Jane.
"It is absurd," said Lucilla, very distinctly, "to have come at this hour of the night to fetch the work-bag. But with all that sewing to do before breakfast, it was much better to come now."
"Much—ha-ha!" laughed Jane, unconvincingly.
"It'll be quite a funny adventure to write to Miss Graves about," said Lucilla.
"Yes, won't it?" Jane agreed with enthusiasm, and laughed mechanically.
"The dear old thing will think it quite recklessly amusing," said Lucilla, laughing again. Really, anyone in the bushes would have been quite sure that the speaker, who had now reached the gate, was wholly free from fear or care and very much amused. "It will fill up our weekly letter beautifully . . . Oh!" she ended, fumbling with the padlock.
"What's up?"
"It's locked. It is, really."
"Nonsense," said Jane, "let me." She pushed away Lucilla's fingers, and something fell, rattling against the iron of the gate and resounding on stone.
"It is, though," said Jane. "What was that you dropped?"
"Only the key of the garden room. I'll pick it up directly. The padlock is locked, though, isn't it?"
It was—beyond a doubt.
"Did you leave the key in it?"
"Of course not. You know it wasn't locked."
"Then where is the key?"
"I must have put it down inside," said Lucilla. "Let's find the other key and go back and get it."
But they could not find the other key, though they felt all about along the wet gravel—and all the time the rain came down, more and more earnestly and searchingly.
