"THIS cannot be the right direction. It is not possible," said Edward Windermere. He leapt from his bicycle and peered up and then down the rude lane in which he found himself.

      He could see little. The fog had come on treacherously, under cover of the creeping night. It hung now, like a great cloud, everywhere, growing every moment denser.

      The young man stood irresolute. To go back the way he had come; to return ignominiously to Hillgate and confess that the short cut had been a delusion and a snare, to remain there the night and go on to Cunnington in the morning — that seemed the wisest course to take. But he did not find it alluring.

      In the first place, he had promised Cosmo Gregson that he would be with him at Cunnington that evening; in the second place, he had wound along so tortuous a path since leaving Hillgate, had taken so many dips and turns, that the thought of going over the same ground again filled him with distaste.

      He remounted his machine and moved gingerly ahead. His progress was slow. The impassive greyness in front tried his nerve, the light of his bicycle-lamp scarcely broke it.

      Even the blurred outlines of the hedges altered. They became less distinct, and he guessed that the lane widened. While he drew the inference a shock ran through him: he found himself pitched from his machine. The ground sloped and he rolled gently, but not far. An icy coldness touched him, and he knew that he lay in water. He had fallen into a ditch.

"HE SCRAMBLED OUT, WET, MUDDY, AND DISHEVELLED."

      He scrambled out, wet, muddy, and dishevelled, but unhurt. After some groping he found his cap, and pulled it over his head. His bicycle lay upon the path; the lamp had gone out. In righting the machine he came upon the cause of the catastrophe — the decayed limb of a tree stretching almost from hedge to hedge. Windermere propped the bicycle against it, felt in his pockets for matches, and lighted his lamp.

      He then lifted his bicycle over the dank, rotting branch and moved on, pushing it as he went.

      The lane continued to widen, and eventually branched off in two directions. It was only when brought to a standstill by a broken wooden fence between the two roads that Windermere discovered the fact. A gaunt post stood inside the fence.

      "A sign-post — at last! Now I shall have some idea where I am!" exclaimed he.

      It was with some difficulty that he made out the directions upon it. When he did so he laughed aloud, a laughter full of scorn, but without much mirth in it.

      The road to Hillgate, it appeared, lay toward the left through one of the unbroken hedges of the lane; the road to Cunnington lay through the tangled enclosure where the sign-post was; the road to Marshal's Graham lay somewhere near the sky.

      Windermere leant forward, and with his elbow gave the sign-post. a derisive push. It tottered and fell. It had fallen long since, no doubt, and some waggish passer-by had raised it and had propped it against a rotting tree.

      That hope was gone. Windermere, without much prejudice in its favour, chose the road to the right.

      To walk straight ahead was all that occurred to him. This course proved, for about an hour's space, brilliantly unfruitful; at the end, of that time he found: himself facing what appeared to be a thick box-hedge.

      The box-hedge seemed interminable; it grew ragged and ill-kept. At length, to his. joy, Windermere came upon a wide, ramshackle gate. He went through.

      In the course of an hour he went through: some half-a-dozen gates, each one leading, apparently, to nowhere.

      But were there half-a-dozen gates, or merely one, possibly two; through which he had been passing and repassing? Windermere brought himself to a sudden halt and swore heartily. It was, so pre-eminently likely that he had been travelling in a circle round and round.

      There was nothing within range of his foot; but, as he moved on his bicycle struck against a great stone.

      Windermere stooped and felt it carefully — there were joins in it — it felt like a piece of masonry. He moved cautiously on, and a few steps brought him against a high stone wall in which a large gap was broken.

      With infinite difficulty. he got his bicycle through the opening, scratching his knuckles and bruising his knees as he did so. After some perambulation he came upon what appeared to be the cloudy outlines of a house. He approached closer and moved round it, seeking for the door.

      At length a porch discovered itself, banked by bushes on each aides The house, as he pilgrimaged round it, had appeared to be in darkness; but Windermere could now see the dim glimmer of a light in what was probably the kitchen.

      He groped for the knocker, found it, and knocked loudly. He imagined he heard voices, but no one came to the door. He knocked again, and then again. No one came to ask his business, but he heard footsteps moving stealthily in the house. There seemed to be a greater area of light glimmering out against the fog. Windermere moved backward and looked up, then he stared.

      For, one by one, the windows began to kindle and shine; finally there was scarcely an unlighted window in the house. He saw that it was quite a large building, much larger than he had supposed; and the entire face of it was aglow.

      He could hear other footsteps now, noisy and impetuous, hastening along the passages and up and down the stairs. These were succeeded: by a heavy tread, as of some heavy weight, being carried. Windermere was struck by a sense of mystery, unpleasant mystery, in the house.

      He must either obtain shelter here or wander, saturated, in the foggy darkness. The lighted windows fascinated him. Again he looked. up. at them; then he caught the knocker and with all his might hammered on the door.

      The noise. echoed and re-echoed. There was a sudden stillness in the house, as if all within listened to this foolish one demanding admittance. Finally, while Windermere still kept up his furious tattoo, heavy steps sounded on the stair, in the passage. Someone advanced and began to unbolt the door.

      Windermere waited, controlling his impatience as best he could. Intentionally or unintentionally, the fingers inside were slow and uncertain. Finally the door slid open, perhaps a couple of inches, and an uncouth yoice asked:—

      "What is it you want?"

      The door wavered, as if on the point of being re-shut.

      Hunger and cold made Edward Windermere desperate. He set his toe against the wavering door, pushed his foot in, and kept it open.

      "Shelter," he said, succinctly, "a night's lodging. You cannot refuse me. I have lost my way in this beastly fog, am hungry, and wet to the skin."

      "Where was you makin' for?"

      "For Cunnington — from Hillgate."

      "You be a long way out."

      "I don't doubt it; I have been wandering for hours."

      "You ain't got no one with you?"

      Windermere could see now, through the gap which his foot kept open, the face of his interlocutor — that of a stupid country girl with dull brown eyes. Those eyes regarded him watchfully. For the rest, the girl was rather short, broad, and strongly built.

      "No, I haven't anyone with me. I am alone."

      The girl moved back. "You'd best try somewheer else. The house is full. We ain't got no room," she said. She looked at him oddly.

      "There isn't another house for miles, and if there were I could not find it in this fog."

      "You'd best goon. There's the miller's, down agin the hollow theer."

      "I don't know the place; I couldn't find it."

      He pushed his face close to hers. "You must give me shelter. I'm dead tired. I'll sleep anywhere — in the kitchen, if you like." "Well, I can't help it if you comes in. If you will, you will, I s'pose," said the girl, drawing back reluctantly.

      The hall was flagged and clean. His feet and the bicycle-tyres made a muddy track across it. A lantern hung from the ceiling, lighting. imperfectly the hall and a wide, gloomy stair. By its light Windermere looking down at himself, saw that he was covered with reddish-brown mud from shoulder to foot, and that his knuckles were bleeding. He was wet through besides.

      He closed the door behind him; it shut with a clang. The noise reverberated through the house, which was intensely silent after its clatter of a few minutes ago.

      Windermere glanced at the girl. She returned the glance stolidly. Without uttering a word she turned and led the way into a narrow and ill-lighted passage. Leaving his machine behind him in the hall, Windermere followed her.

      The passage ended in a door. His guide pushed it open and he found himself in an immense kitchen. It was empty, but about half-a-dozen chairs still stood round the fire. Glancing about, Windermere saw that on the high mantelshelf several pipes were scattered. A number of glasses stood on a table near the window, but had evidently not been used. A large table stood in the middle of the room.

      There were three great cupboards of solid dark oak, a door — besides that which led into the passage — and in one corner a huge copper. The floor was flagged, with mats thrown here and there. Several old weapons well polished, hung on the wall.

      "You kin sit theer," said the girl, pointing with her thumb. She indicated a chair facing the fire, and with its back to the door leading from the passage.

      "I am horribly damp," said Windermere.

      "I dessay." She seemed indifferent, but after a moment, in which she lifted the glasses one by one and set them on a tray, she went slowly to a nail on the wall on which an old. coat hung, lifted down the shabby garment, and brought it to him. It was coarse, soiled, and evil-smelling; but, after a moment's repugnance, Windermere took off his own coat and donned this. He hung his dripping garment over the back of a chair.

      Windermere seated himself before the huge fire, on which a great kettle sputtered cheerfully. Clouds of white steam puffed out from his clothes. "If I might have something to eat ——" he ventured.

      "I don't know about that," said the girl, curtly. "I must ask th' master. There ain't much in th' house. Visitors ha' eaten most."

      But she did not go very far to ask — only to the door behind his chair. Windermere could hear her whispering there; but when he looked round he could see nothing.

      At his movement she turned and came back into the kitchen. She said, sourly; "You may ha' summat."

      On a shelf near was a plate on witch were two or three large hunches of bread. She brought this to him, setting it on the great table at the corner nearest the fire. After a few moments she brought a slice of red cheese and set that plate beside the first. She hesitated, then added a glass and a small jugful of ale.

      At this moment the door opened and another maid entered; Windermere, as he turned toward the table, caught sight of her, full view. He was struck by her pallor, by the refinement of her features, by the great dark blue eyes that for one moment looked into his. The girl was dressed in a straight blue gown. Her apron was clean and neat, her cap sat on her head proudly as if it were a crown. She gave the stranger no greeting, but, going to the dresser, lifted the trayful of glasses and bore them from the room.

      Windermere drew his chair toward the table. The fare was coarse, but, hungry as he was, he found it acceptable enough.

      He drank a glass of ale, then moved his plate aside. "You haven't given me a knife," he said.

      "No," responded the stout girl, stolidly. "There ain't no knives. The company has them all upstairs."

      "But — how can I cut this without a knife?"

      Not heeding him, she went to one of the cupboards and rummaged there. When she emerged she carried a great pewter candlestick and a bunch of rusty keys.

      He repeated, staring at the bread and cheese, "How can I cut these without a knife?"

      "As best you may," retorted she, roughly. "If th' master hears aught of ye, 'twill be the worse for you, I'm thinkin'. Take the vittals, or leave 'em, as you please — the company has all the knives."

      She went to the door, carrying candlestick and keys with her. As she went out the maid in the blue dress came in. With a flicker of her dark eyes toward the table she set down an empty tray. She took a great jug from the dresser and started to fill it with boiling water from the kettle on the fire.

"'I SUPPOSE I CANNOT HAVE A KNIFE?' ASKED WINDERMERE."

      "I suppose I cannot have a knife?" asked Windermere, addressing her.

      She turned at the query and looked him in the face. "No," she said, shortly. Her jug was now full of water; she set it on the table and looked about. Presently she went to a cupboard and sought there hastily. She brought out a great bowl, a long-handled spoon, and a dish heaped with sugar. She set all these together with the hot water upon the tray.

      "For the company, I suppose?" queried Windermere. He reflected uneasily upon the extraordinary silence of the house.

      "For the gentlemen upstairs," said she. Her voice was sweet and refined; but it was full of reserve. He felt that she looked. at him curiously, as if she wanted to ask what he were doing there. When he brought out his pocket-knife' and began to hack at his bread, she watched him. She did not, however, make any remark. Presently she went away with her burden.

      He had finished his supper when the tall girl returned with empty hands. She said, "The master says you had better go to your room now. We shall want the kitchen."

      "I am very willing," said Windermere. "I am tired."

      His coat still hung by the fire; he felt it to see if it were dry. It was not.

      "You had better leave it there," said she.

      He agreed. He had emptied the pockets when he took it off.

      More to draw her blue eyes upon him than from any hope of receiving information, he said, "I want to reach Cunnington as early as possible to-morrow morning. Can you suggest the quickest route?"

      "You want to go to Cunnington?" she asked him quickly.

      "Yes, I want to rejoin a friend there."

      She regarded him steadfastly for a few moments, seemed about to question him further, then her eyes wavered. She said, turning from him, "I do not know the way."

      The other maid brought a lighted candle, and the girl with the blue eyes took it from her. She said to Windermere without looking at him, "Come, I will show you the way to your room."

      He was to have a room; Windermere was sorry. He felt strangely loath to leave the kitchen. He hung back a little, but the girl in the blue gown walked steadily to the door.

"SHE SAID AGAIN, 'COME,' AND HE WENT AFTER HER."

      She said again, "Come," and he went after her; the other maid followed behind him.

      They seemed to go up a great many stairs, past a great number of doors, past rooms well lighted — chinks of radiance shone at him from them as he passed — but silent as the grave. Only in one chamber was heard a rattle of glasses and plates. The girl in front passed the door of this quickly. She looked back to see if he were behind. More stairs then, and she paused, pushing open a door. "This is where you are to sleep."

      He glanced round the room. In the dim light of the candle the girl held — and there was no other light — he could see that it was small, high-ceilinged, and sparsely furnished, but a fire sputtered in the grate.

      The girl gave him the candle. He noticed that her hand was small and white, and without any stain of toil.

      "Make as little noise as you can; there are other people near," she said, admonishingly. Over her shoulder he could see the stolid features of the other maid.

      "Thank you. Good night," said Windermere. He walked toward the fire. Both girls withdrew, and the door closed. They rattled the handle in closing it; the lock was evidently stiff from rust and disuse.

      Windermere stood by the fire, warming one foot and then the other. The muddy state of his boots struck him, then the state of his stockings and knickerbockers, which were caked over with dirt. A long, narrow glass hung on one of the walls; he caught a glimpse of himself in it. "A disreputable-looking ruffian," he thought, rather amused. His face, he saw, was smudged. His hands were dirty also; he must cleanse them and give his knuckles a chance to heal.

      He did so. There was cold water in the jug on the wash­hand-stand, and a morsel of yellow soap. A coarse towel hung from a small rack. He ransacked the table by the window, but could not find a clothes­brush. There was not a brush in the room, he discovered.

      A bell hung beside the bed; his first impulse was to ring it, but he thought better of it, remembering the tall girl's warning. He would go to the door and see if he could intercept one of the maids.

      He crossed the room, seized the handle, and turned it; he pulled, but to no purpose. The door offered resistance. But a cursory examination was needed to show him that it was locked — on the outside. On his side there was neither bolt nor bar.

      The discovery made him thoughtful, and again a vague uneasiness stole over him. He went to the window and looked out. He could see nothing; the fog and darkness made a blank wall before him. The sashline of the window was broken; the lower half of the frame was a dead weight which he could not move. It mattered little — from the number of stairs he had climbed he calculated that the room was placed high.

      His non-ringing of the bell mattered little either, he soon saw, for the wire was broken where it entered the wall.

      He paced the room, wondering, cogitating. In spite of his weariness the bed in the corner did not tempt him. There was an arm-chair covered in dingy rep; he moved it from the window and set it by the fire. As he did so he fancied he heard movements, a quick whispering, then retreating footsteps outside his door. He paused and listened. Yes, there were footsteps; they faded along the carpet of the corridor and were lost.

      To the left of the wall in which the door was set, and placed very high, was a short slit, no doubt for ventilation. As he sat brooding at the side of the fire Windermere could see this slit. As he gazed at it wondering what it was, it became suddenly filled with light — a light which pierced sharply into his room, ill-served as it was by the solitary candle.

      Windermere had unlaced his boots. He slipped them off and ran across the floor; but, quick as he had been, the light had flickered and disappeared.

      He stood staring, and as he stood there a sound of footsteps smote his ear; it became more distinct, and again a light filled the chink in the wall. The footsteps came very near, the light flickered; in a moment it was gone. Windermere again waited, and the experience was repeated. Quite suddenly he realized the explanation. The staircase in the corridor outside wound upward past the wall of his chamber; these footsteps were of people mounting to the next floor to go to bed. Apparently each person carried a candle or lamp, and always on the side nearest Windermere's wall; in this way the light of each shone for a moment into his room.

      Windermere counted; six persons had mounted the stairs. He wondered how many were in the house, if six slept even farther aloft than he.

      Those who went above were strangely silent; he could hear not a footstep overhead. As he listened, sharply attentive, he heard the stair creak stealthily. Was someone passing up now without a light? He could not tell.

      That sound was scarcely past when his ear caught another. It was a duller, heavier sound; he listened to it mechanically, a kind of horror seizing him. He had heard this noise before; it was as if several persons moved, carrying some heavy weight. He heard it approach, heard the halting of feet — it seemed to him exactly opposite his door. Then, unaccountably, while he watched the door with bated breath, there was a dull thud, and the whole thing faded away. There was silence.

      Windermere cursed his captivity; the locked door which chafed his courage and tried his nerves. Had he been able to burst the panel. he would have done so, and have taken the consequences. But the door was old, heavy, well hung; no strength of his could do aught with it. He could only wait. He could have wished that he had had less money on him; the letter he had gone to Hillgate to fetch contained several bank-notes.

      He thought of the girl with the blue eyes; she was no maid-servant — the idea was absurd. He wondered what she was. He could not tell. What was she doing in this house of strange silences and stranger sounds?

      He stared at the candle as he sat by the fire. It was long and thick, and would probably last the night through. Its unsteady light was full of comfort. He watched it absently. He would not go to bed; no sleeping in this house for him. He clapped his hand over the pocket in which was his pocket-book, and blinked at the candle; and even as he vowed he would not slumber, through sheer weariness his eyelids closed and he fell asleep.

      When he wakened it was morning, late morning, and the sun shone in on him. The candle had guttered out long since; the wax at the bottom of the socket was hard. It was evident that he had slept a long time.

      Windermere rose stiffly, and with a sense of panic. He looked round. All was, apparently, as it had been when he closed his eyes at midnight. He felt for his pocket­book — it was there. He examined it — the contents were intact.

      As he stood with it in his hands a knock came at the door. He replaced the pocket­book and went. The handle turned with a groan, the door opening at once.

      Outside, resting on the floor, he perceived a tray. It was covered by a spotless napkin, upon which were a coffee-pot, rolls, eggs, butter — a knife. Beside the tray lay his coat and a clothes-brush.

      Windermere took them all in, wondering if he were, or had been, dreaming. He made his toilet, then breakfasted well. His watch having stopped, he had no idea what the time was. His coat had been well brushed, he: perceived when he put it on, and wondered by whom. When he was ready for departure he left his room and went downstairs.

      The sturdy maiden of last night met him in the hall. Her stare was as stolid as ever; it told him nothing.

      She said merely, "You are to go into th' parlour," and went before to show the way.

      The parlour was on a level with the hall, a large, pleasant room. The tall girl sat there. by the table, sewing. She was dressed in a light skirt and blouse, and wore neither cap nor apron. She seemed to expect no surprise from Windermere. As her eyes met his she said, in a matter-of-fact tone:—

      "There is a map of the county on the table there; it will tell you the way to Cunnington."

      "Thank you," said Windermere. He spread out the map and considered it; his mind was full of confusion. It was evident that last night was to be ignored.

      After a moment he said, slowly, "It is a slight difficulty that I do not know where I am."

      She hesitated for a moment, evading his glance. Then she said, quickly, "You are at Redlands."

      His amazement grew at the reply. He had heard of the house, the ramshackle residence of a well-known magistrate, a man of probity, but without wealth.

      The preceding night became more and more of a mystery. He closed the map.

      The girl rose. "Your bicycle is outside," she said, quietly. "Margaret has cleaned it up a little."

      She went with him through the hall to the porch, moving with the same stately grace as had distinguished her when in humbler garb. Two young girls were in the garden; Windermere could see them walking among the trees, their heads bare, long tails of hair hanging down their backs.

      He said stiffly, "I am indebted — how can I repay ——"

      A smile curved the lips of his companion then. She said, "Repay us for what?"

      He hesitated. "A night's shelter." His brows drew down in perplexity.

      "And entertainment!" She laughed. "Say no more of it." In her turn she hesitated, then said, with a charming apology in her blue eyes, "You have little to be grateful for. If you should ever come this way again, perhaps you may give us a chance of redeeming our character for hospitality."

      He turned his bicycle round and moved down the garden path. He wished he had not to go, but he had no excuse to stay. There was more in this girl that attracted him than the mystery about her.

      To his surprise she walked to the gate with him. It was almost as if she, too, were disinclined to cut off thus unsatisfactorily their acquaintance.

      She did not speak.

"'I DO WISH,' HE SAID, IMPULSIVELY, 'YOU WOULD TELL ME WHY YOU LOCKED ME IN MY ROOM.'"

      At the gate Windermere turned. "I do wish," he said, impulsively, "you would tell me why you locked me in my room?"

      She looked him full in the face. There was mingled shame and amusement in her eyes. She said, slowly, "You would never forgive me if I told you."

      He said, "Why not? Besides, I think I could forgive you anything."

      She began to speak then, hesitating between the words. "You see — it was like this — we did not know who you were — the whole thing was a mistake. My father — he is a magistrate, you know — had been threatened by some fellow whose conviction he had to do with a short time ago. We girls, we heard of it, and we were nervous. The man's time was up the day before yesterday, and we thought ——"

      "You thought I was he!" He was filled with astonishment. He had not thought of a solution affecting himself. Colour crept into his cheek.

      She went on: "Father was away last night, and my brother, too. We thought you might do us a mischief. There were only the two girls — my younger sisters — myself, and Margaret. We were all afraid, horribly afraid, so we had to pretend — that there were a lot of people in the house."

      "It was all pretence! You were afraid!" He remembered the lack of a knife. "You were afraid of me?"

      "Yes."

      "You acted very well!" He was still filled with astonishment.

      She smiled. "It was difficult in some ways. We went upstairs by your door two or three times, each one of us, to make you think there were people going to bed up there. We had to steal down in the dark before mounting again. It was difficult to do it quietly, and we were horribly afraid."

      "There weren't any men drinking upstairs?"

      She shook her head. "None. Only the two girls, my sisters, clattering dishes about."

      Suddenly he began to laugh; the humour of the thing struck him. "You were afraid of me, and you made me — well, almost afraid of you!"

      He related to her his experiences of the night: she listened wide-eyed. When the tale was finished she did not laugh. She said, "I wonder you can forgive us — that — and the gardener's old coat! I am so sorry. You see, we did not think of you, except ——"

      "Except as the other man; I do see. But why am I this morning set free? How do you know that I am not he?"

      "Irene found a note about it among my father's papers this morning — that man's time is not up for another three weeks. We were wrong."

      They looked at each other gravely.

      He said, "If I come again in three weeks' time, will you look askance?"

      She said calmly, but her lips twitched, "My father will be at home."

      Suddenly he remembered. "You carried something past my door — something heavy. She blushed a little. "We set a table against it."

      Again he laughed. She was very charming standing there, the sunlight on her crimsoning cheeks.

      "My name is Edward Windermere," he said. "When not a vagabond, as last night, I play with pen and ink. I am, in fact, a writer of plays."

      She knew the name. Whilst she struggled with confusion one of the young girls called her:—

      "Esther! Esther! Where are you? Do come quickly!"

      Her name was Esther, then. He would carry it away with him.

      "Good-bye," she said, moving away. "Try and forgive us."

      He said, "No, not good-bye; I shall come again. And there is nothing to forgive."

      He mounted and skimmed away, down the narrow lane that led from the box-hedge to the high road. His mind was not running on Cunnington or the anxious Gregson; but on a night's adventure that had ended in strange wise.

      As he thought this, he said to himself, "No, it is not ended. I spoke truly — I shall come again."