"We must go quietly," said Luke, as he headed the procession of giggling
young folk, brought up in the rear by the shawled and hooded figure of
Mrs. Steffink; "I've always laid stress on keeping this a quiet and
orderly neighbourhood."

It was a few minutes to midnight when the party reached the cow-house and
made its way in by the light of Luke's stable lantern. For a moment
every one stood in silence, almost with a feeling of being in church.

"Daisy--the one lying down--is by a shorthorn bull out of a Guernsey
cow," announced Luke in a hushed voice, which was in keeping with the
foregoing impression.

"Is she?" said Bordenby, rather as if he had expected her to be by
Rembrandt.

"Myrtle is--"

Myrtle's family history was cut short by a little scream from the women
of the party.

The cow-house door had closed noiselessly behind them and the key had
turned gratingly in the lock; then they heard Bertie's voice pleasantly
wishing them good-night and his footsteps retreating along the garden
path.

Luke Steffink strode to the window; it was a small square opening of the
old-fashioned sort, with iron bars let into the stonework.