The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of dream. ‘What are the chances, do you think, of that thing being already cocked?’ ‘Probably not even loaded,’ suggested Hilary hopefully. ” “The truth!” There was a brief but intense silence. Rummage, my boy, do. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible.
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