He turned to go but I stood still. I hated going back there and it was lovely walking slowly along through the sharp chill air and the peaceful night. "You go," I said, coaxing. "I’ll saunter on and you can catch me up." "Don’t you mind being alone? Aren’t you afraid?" "Afraid?" I gave a laugh. "I’m much more afraid in that queer joint. Besides, I can’t go as fast as you can and whatever happens we’ve got to catch that train." "If you don’t mind that’s the best plan. I’ll run both ways." "Then hustle and I’ll walk on slowly. But come whether you find the purse or not, for that’s the last train to the Junction to-night, and we mustn’t lose it." "Right you are, and we won’t lose anything, the train or the purse. I’ll make it a rush order. Go slow till I come." He turned and went off at a run and I walked on. At first I could hear the thud of his feet quite plainly and then the sound was suddenly deadened and I knew he was on the moist turf by the roadside. The silence closed down around me like a black curtain that seemed to be shutting me off from the rest of the world. I walked on slowly, gathering my skirts up from the wet and the twigs, as noiseless as a shadow in the dark of the trees. I don’t know how much further I went, but not very far because I could just make out the line of the Firehill Road curving down between the fields, when I heard behind me a fitful, stealthy rustling in the bushes. XVII In beginning this chapter, which is going to end my story of the Hesketh Mystery, I want to say right here that I’m no coward. The reason that things happened as they did was that I was worn out—more than I knew—by the strain and excitement of the last two months. Also I do think that most any girl would have lost her nerve if she’d been up against what I was. The gloom of that dreadful Wayside Arbor was still on me as I walked along with Babbitts. After a few moments I thought it had gone off and when I told him I wasn’t afraid I said what seemed to me the truth. But when the sound of his footsteps died away, the loneliness crept in on me, seemed to be telling me something that I didn’t want to hear. Down deep I knew what it was, and that every step was taking me closer to what I was afraid of—the place where Sylvia Hesketh had been murdered. It was when I was peering out ahead, trying to locate it, telling myself not to be a fool and gathering up my courage, that I heard that faint, stealthy rustling behind me. I stopped dead, listening. I was scared but not clear through yet, for I knew it might be some little animal, a rabbit or a chipmunk, creeping through the underbrush. I stood waiting, feeling that I was breathing fast, and as still as one of the telegraph poles along the road. The trees hid me completely. A person could have passed close by and not seen me standing there in my black cloak against the black background.