It was very dark, outside, once she got beyond the light from the Lodge windows. In her haste she had forgotten to bring the lantern with her, but she did not go back for it, because she felt she knew every inch of the ground, and, moreover, the impulse that drew her forth was so strong that she could not endure the idea of delay for a moment. She had discovered a short-cut across the grounds and meant to use it, though she knew Sam disapproved any trespassing on his adored lawns, hedges, and shrubberies, and, as a general rule, she respected his wishes. But now she made straight for the thicket of bushes walling in her kitchen-garden, meaning to push through it, at the point of least resistance, strike across the roadway and so slice off a good quarter of a mile, by bisecting the lawn sweeping up to the big house. Just within the thicket she stood as if at attention. For the life of her she could not have said what brought her to a standstill, but also, for the life of her, she could not go on until she knew what was on the other side of that wall of bushes. Listening, she could hear nothing but the common-place night-sounds, now grown familiar to her ears. The stirrings of leaves, when the wind sighed through them, the surreptitious whirr of wings aloft, up over the tree-tops, the lowly meanderings of insects among the grass, the soft pad-pad of tiny, furry feet scampering to safety. But there was still another sound, an unusual, unfamiliar sound. It came to Martha in a flash what it was. A fox, caught in one of Sam’s traps. "Oh, you poor devil, you!" she heard herself exclaim. The words were echoed by a human groan, so close at hand, she fairly started. "Who are you?" Her question rang out sharply. "None of your damned business!" came back in instant answer. "But since you’re here, curse you! come, and get me out of this —— —— trap." A light flashed, by which Martha made out a man’s figure crouching on the ground the other side of the hedge. His face was completely hidden, not alone by the drooping brim of his soft hat, but by a sort of black mask he wore. Without a moment’s hesitation she forced her way through the hedge. Now she could see more plainly, she made out that the man was on his hands and knees. One hand was free—the other, caught in the fox-trap, was bleeding cruelly. On the ground, within easy reach lay a pistol, a bundle of fagots, and a bull’s-eye electric torch. The man’s uninjured left hand was clutching the torch. "Doncher stir a muscle, Mr. Buller," Martha said imperatively, "till I make out how this thing works. I don’t want to hurt you more than I got to, unspringin’ the trap." Buller swore violently as he bade her, "Go ahead then, and be quick about it!" A moment, and the mangled hand was free. Instantly, its owner listed over on the grass in a dead faint, in total darkness.