As he looked, his eye caught a movement among the distant shrubs. Some small object was advancing along the gravelled walk surrounding the lawn. Presently, as if attracted by the light, it turned off the pathway on to the lawn, in a bee-line for the window. The Bishop stood watching, wondering a little, when the object resolved itself first into a small boy, and then into Sandy Bethune. "Why, Sandy!" he exclaimed, "how did you get here?" "Is it the middle of the night?" asked Sandy in his usual cheerful way. "Nearly. It's half-past eleven. Good gracious! What have you been doing?" For, on approaching the light, Sandy was seen to be covered with mud and otherwise much disarrayed. Sandy considered. He was in a deep fix--so deep a one as to threaten the upheaval and overthrow of some well-laid plans, just on the point of being carried out. The Bishop was an understanding man. Sandy had confided in him before, and knew his worth. If only Mrs. Lytchett did not live at the Palace, and spoil everything, Sandy would have been quite willing to share that residence with the Bishop. He had once told the Bishop so, artlessly asking when Mrs. Lytchett was going away to live elsewhere. The Bishop, on his side, found the children of his friend very charming, specially so irrepressible Sandy; and was ready to be lenient when their peccadilloes were in question. He now invited Sandy in, despite the muddy covering which encased him from head to foot. Sitting down, he began to question him gravely. "What is it, Sandy? Why are you in such a mess?" Sandy sat down on a little stool, as if glad to present his small person to the fire, and said, "It's the bovering funderstorm. We'd never thought of that. An' we got caught, an' had to take shelter, an' when we got back our way was bunged up--all squashy with mud. An' we hadn't got no spades nor fings out with us. So at last I said I would go and scout--you know--an' then I saw you." "Who's 'we'?" asked the Bishop. "Me an' David." "And how did you get into my garden?" "Oh, over the wall. We're highwaymen, and we've got a way of our own." "Indeed. And where's David now?" "Oh, he's over there, all muddy, tryin' to clean himself. He's a deal worse than me," said Sandy cheerfully. "He must indeed be bad, then. What do you propose to do?" "That's it. We can't get back to the pantry window now our way's gone," said artless Sandy. "Not in at all, not wivout knockin' at the door. I did think p'raps"--persuasively--"you cud come and knock." "I see. And then?" "Then, when you was talkin' to father, we cud slip in. Don't fink father would see--not to notice." "How long have you been highwaymen?" the Bishop asked. "On'y about a week--and this is a sickener," said Sandy disgustedly. "We was ghosts for a bit at first--till a woman screeched so we nearly got caught, stupid fing!" And the Bishop, remembering certain reports that had been made to him, was pleased with his acumen in refusing to call in the police.