A familiar figure was making his way towards them. "What is this!" cried Sir Rowland. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. "By Heaven!" cried Darrell, "it is the poor fellow whom I placed in such jeopardy a short time ago. ” He handed her the phone reluctantly, barely masking his mild disgust. To simplify matters, he carried a coloured paper lantern upon which his license number was painted in Arabic numerals. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced.
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