one thing to the good. The burglars are gone—if there were any. Whoever it was that unlocked the padlock has locked it again and gone. So we're just out in the rain in our own garden, and all we've got to do is to wait till morning—and it gets light about four or five. . . ."
"We shall be locked up all the same even if it's light," said Lucilla.
"Yes, but you won't be frightened when it's light—all right, I mean me as well; besides, we can get hold of a stick then and scratch the garden-room key back, and get in there and get our own key and get home."
"I can't stand here in the rain for four hours," said Lucilla, "and I won't. I shall go and sit on the doorstep—the porch will keep off some of the rain."
"We can do better than that. What about the summer-house. That's not locked, and there are wicker-chairs."
"Oh yes! "said Lucilla. "And I don't really mind the dark now we're sure there's no one but ourselves in the garden. Come on."
The summer-house was beyond the lawn where the cedars were—a largish, rustic, hexagonal building with three blind sides, two windows, and a door. The girls felt their way along the paths guided by the overgrown hedge of dripping shrubs.
"You're sure the burglars have gone?" Lucilla murmured as they neared their goal.
"If they were burglars. Why, not even a burglar would care to be out on a night like this. It's a night to make the boldest burglar bolt home to his burrow like any old rabbit.I say, Lucy, this really is a lark."
"Ye—yes," said Lucilla, her hand on the latch of the summer-house door. It yielded to her touch and they were in, closing the door behind them.
"Thank goodness!" said Jane. "It's dry here, anyhow. Get your macker off."
A silent struggle with wet buttons occupied them for a few moments. Then:
