''That''s the Briar bell, sounding the hour,'' said William Inker. We sat in silence after that, and in a little time we reached a high stone Wall and took a road that ran beside it. Soon the wall became a great arch, and then I saw behind it the roof and the pointed windows of a greyish house, half-covered with ivy. I thought it a grand enough crib, but not so grand nor so grim perhaps as Gentleman had painted it. But when William Inker slowed the horse and I put the blanket from me and reached for my trunk, he said,
''Wait up, sweetheart, we''ve half a mile yet!'' And then, to a man who had appeared with a lantern at the door of the house, he called: ''Good night, Mr Mack. You may shut the gate behind us. Here is Miss Smith, look, safe at last.''
The building I had thought was Briar was only the lodge! I stared, saying nothing, and we drove on past it, between two rows of bare dark trees, that curved as the road curved, then dipped into a kind of hollow, where the air—that had seemed to clear a little, on the open country lanes—grew thick again. So thick it grew, I felt it, damp, upon my face, upon my lashes and lips; and closed my eyes.
Then the dampness passed away. I looked, and stared again. The road had risen, we had broken out from between the lines of trees i