The pain had shot up and down, and her forehead was wet by the time she
had reached the small back door. Was it locked or bolted--was it? She
put her hand gently upon the latch and lifted it without making any
sound. Thank God Almighty, it was neither bolted nor locked, the latch
lifted, the door opened, and she slid through it into the shadow of the
grey which was already almost the darkness of night. Thank God for that,
too.
She flattened herself against the outside wall and listened. He was
having difficulty in managing Childe Harold, who snorted and pulled
back, offended and made rebellious by his savagely impatient hand. Good
Childe Harold, good boy! She could see the massed outline of the trees
of the spinney. If she could bear this long enough to get there--even
if she crawled part of the way. Then it darted through her mind that he
would guess that she would be sure to make for its cover, and that he
would go there first to search.
"Father, think for me--you were so quick to think!" her brain cried out
for her, as if she was speaking to one who could physically hear.
She almost feared she had spoken aloud, and the thought which flashed
upon her like lightning seemed to be an answer given.
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