“Good man!” cried Quimbleton.  “My jolly old beard!” He clapped it onto his face and beamed hopefully.  “Now, if there were some way of getting rid of this tell-tale uniform—­”

They discussed this problem at some length, sitting in the sheltered bowl of sand, while Quimbleton finished his lunch.  Bleak’s suggestion of stitching together a sort of Robinson Crusoe suit of rhododendron leaves did not meet Quimbleton’s approval.

“No Robinson trousseau for me,” he said.  “I thought of pasting together the leaves of The Bartender’s Benefactor, but I’m afraid that would be rather damning.  No, I don’t see what to do.”

“I have it!” said Theodolinda, gleefully.  “I’ve got a sewing kit in the car—­we’ll unrip the upholstery and I can stitch you up a suit in no time.  At least it will be better than the C. P. H. get-up, which would take you in front of a firing squad if it were seen.”

This seemed a good idea.  Bleak volunteered to escort Miss Chuff back to the car and help her rip the covers off the cushions.  This was done, and they carried back to Quimbleton’s hiding place many yards of pale lilac colored twill (or whatever it is) and a flask of iced tea.  In spite of distant sounds of warfare, the time passed pleasantly enough.  Miss Chuff cut out and stitched assiduously; Quimbleton and Bleak, under her directions, sewed on the buttons snipped from the uniform.  Birds twittered in the greenery about them, and they all felt something of the elation of a picnic when the garments were done and Quimbleton retired to a neighboring copse to make the change.  The other two were too seriously concerned for his welfare to laugh when they saw him.

“Splendid!” cried Bleak.  “Now you can lie down in Miss Chuff’s car and if any one looks in they’ll just think you’re part of the furnishings.”

“And I think we’d better get back to the car without delay,” said Theodolinda.  “I’d like to get you out of this danger zone as soon as possible.”

They hastened back to the wall, scaled it with the rope ladder—­ and stared in dismay.  The car had gone.  They could see it far down the road, guarded by a group of Pan-Antis.  A cordon of the enemy had been thrown completely round the Home and escape was impossible.  Worse still, the treachery of Miss Chuff must have been discovered, and they trembled to think what retaliation the Bishop might devise.

In this moment of crisis Quimbleton regained his customary hardihood.  Quilted in his lilac garments, with the white hedge of beard tossing in the breeze, he looked the dashing leader.

“There’s only one thing to do,” he said.  “We’re surrounded in this place.  We must go to the Home, make common cause with the prisoners there, and lead them in a sudden sally of escape.”

CHAPTER VI

DEPARTED SPIRITS