“Walk,” hissed a voice, and she discovered her feet were loosened. She could see nothing, only she could feel the rain beating down upon the cloth that covered her head, and the strength of the wind against her face. It blew the cloth so tightly over her mouth and nose that she could hardly breathe. Where they were taking her she could only guess. It was not until she felt her feet squelch in liquid mud that she knew she was in the lane by the side of the house. She had hardly identified the place before she was lifted bodily into the waiting car; she heard somebody scrambling in by her side, and the car jerked forward. Then with dexterous hand, one of the men sitting at her side whisked the cloth from her head. Ahead, in one of the two bucket seats, the only one occupied, was a dark figure, the face of which she could not see. “What are you doing? Who are you?” she asked, and no sooner did the voice of the man before her come to her ears than she knew she was in the power of the Frog. “I’m going to give you your last chance,” he said. “After to-night that chance is gone.” She composed the tremor in her voice with an effort, and then: “What do you mean by my last chance?” she asked. “You will undertake to marry me, and to leave the country with me in the morning. I’ve such faith in you that I will take your word,” he said. She shook her head, until she realized that, in the darkness, he could not see her. “I will never do that,” she answered quietly, and no other word was spoken through the journey. Once, at a whispered word from the man in the mask—she saw the reflection of his mica eye-pieces even though the blinds were drawn, as the car went through some village street—one of the men looked back through the glass in the hood. “Nothing,” he said. No violence was offered to her; she was not bound, or restricted in any way, though she knew it was perfectly hopeless for her to dream of escape. They were running along a dark country road when the car slowed and stopped. The passengers turned out quickly; she was the last. A man caught her arm as she descended and led her, through an opening of the hedge, into what seemed to her to be a ploughed field. The other came after her, bringing her an oilskin coat and helping her into it. The rain flogged across the waste, rattling against the oil-coat; she heard the man holding her arm mutter something under his breath. The Frog walked ahead, only looking back once. She slipped and stumbled, and would have often fallen but for the hand which held her up. “Where are you taking me?” she asked at last. There was no reply. She wondered if she could wrench herself free, and trust to the cover of darkness to hide her, but even as the thought occurred, she saw a gleam of water to the right—a round, ghostly patch. “These are Morby Fields,” she said suddenly, recognizing the place. “You’re taking me to the quarry.”