It was fully three miles to Shaw’s place, most of the way over the narrow valley road.  She knew she would encounter but few tortuous places.  The last half-mile, however, was steep, rugged, and unfamiliar to her.  She had ventured no nearer to his home than Renwood’s deserted cottage, lying above and to the south of the road, almost at the base of the long hill on whose side Shaw had built his big home.  To climb that hill was no easy task in daylight; at midnight, with the stars obscured by clouds and tree-tops, there was something perilously uncertain in the prospect.

Only the knowledge that patience and courage eventually would bring her to the end made the journey possible.  Time would lead her to the haven; care would make the road a friend; a stout heart was her best ally.  Strength of limb and strength of purpose she had, in use and in reserve.  No power could have made her turn back willingly.  Her anxious eyes were set ahead in the blackness; her runaway feet were eager in obedience to her will.

“Why couldn’t I have put it off until morning?” she was saying to herself as she passed down the gravelled drive and advanced to meet the wall of trees that frowned blackly in her face.  “What will he think?  What will he say?  Oh, he’ll think I’m such a silly, romantic fool.  No, he won’t.  He’ll understand.  He’ll help me on to Plattsburg to-morrow.  But will he think I’ve done this for effect?  Won’t he think I’m actually throwing myself at his head?  No, I can’t turn back.  I’d rather die than go back to that house.  It won’t matter what he thinks; I’ll be away from all of it to-morrow.  I’ll he out of his life and I won’t care what he thinks.  England!  Goodness, what’s that?” She had turned a bend in the drive and just ahead there was a light.  A sigh of relief followed the question.  It came from the lantern which hung to a stake in the road where the new stone gate-posts were being built by workmen from town.  Bazelhurst Villa was a quarter of a mile, through the park, behind her; the forest was ahead.

At the gate she stopped between the half-finished stone posts and looked ahead with the first shiver of dismay.  Her limbs seemed ready to collapse.  The flush of anger and excitement left her face; a white, desolate look came in its stead.  Her eyes grew wide and she blinked her lashes with an awed uncertainty that boded ill for the stability of her adventure.  An owl hooted in mournful cadence close by and she felt that her hair was going straight on end.  The tense fingers of one hand gripped the handle of the travelling-bag while the other went spasmodically to her heart.