Mr. Foster’s fat red house stood at a corner of the main road, where a somewhat insignificant turning led to a remote countryside and a village two miles away. It followed that Mr. Foster’s garden ran along the side of this insignificant turning, the boundary between importance and insignificance being marked with a fence. Over the top of this fence a girl’s face was now regarding Mr. Foster with every sign of anxiety. “Good gracious!” said Mr. Foster, and hurried towards it. Pretty faces hanging anxiously over his fence were something new in Mr. Foster’s experience. Large yokel faces, decorated with foolish grins, he had seen before and with pain, but not pretty ones that whistled. He proceeded to investigate. “Where can I get in?” cried the owner of the face, in tones of unmistakable agitation. “They’re after me. They’re—oh, isn’t there a gate or something? Quickly, please!” “There is a gate,” admitted the perplexed Mr. Foster. “But——” “Then open it! Don’t you understand? It’s a matter of life and death.” “Is it?” asked Mr. Foster wonderingly. “Are you ill?” “No, _no_! Don’t you recognise me? It was I who spoke to you in the garden the night before last; who told you——” “Good Heavens!” Mr. Foster gasped. “So it is. I thought you seemed very familiar. I mean, your voice sounded familiar. But——” “Open the gate!” said the girl tersely. Mr. Foster ran along the fence and did so. The girl tumbled through and stood for a moment, panting, one hand to her heart. “Safe!” she muttered. “Oh, thank God! But quick—hide me! They’ll be here any minute.” “The deuce they will!” squeaked Mr. Foster. His little fat legs twinkled along the path towards a tool-shed that stood in the angle of the fence at the bottom of the garden. He pulled the door open and shut it behind them. “Good gracious!” said Mr. Foster, and mopped his brow. “Oh, thank you,” murmured the girl, with a little sob. They gazed at one another. “Who are after you?” panted Mr. Foster. “The—the Man with the Broken Nose?” “Yes, and the whole gang with him,” replied Dora, who did not believe in doing things by halves. For sisters, Dora and Laura had much in common. “Whew!” said Mr. Foster, thrilled to the core. “How many of them?” “Seventeen! Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do?” Mr. Foster possessed himself of one of her hands and began to pat it. Mr. Foster was the sort of person who does pat attractive young women. “I don’t think they’ll bother you _here_,” he said, swelling slightly. “You just leave things to me, my dear. I’ll look after you. What have you done, then? Run away?” “Yes, I simply couldn’t stand it any longer.” Dora made use of a life-like shudder to withdraw her hand. “The constant murders! Oh, it was terrible. They do get on your nerves after a time, you know, murders do. Especially when one is only a woman.” She contrived to look extremely helpless and appealing.