And at the back of my mind my dæmon was still thrusting out little spurts
of enthralling allegory. The Sturtons and Jervaises had been driven in
from the open. They were taking refuge in their house. Presently...

"Given it up?" I remarked with stupid politeness to Miss Tattersall.

"They've sent John round to the stables to inquire," she told me.

I do not know how she knew. "John" was the only man-servant that the
Jervaises employed in the house; butler, footman, valet and goodness knows
what else.

"Mrs. Sturton seems to be afraid of the night-air," Miss Tattersall
remarked with a complacent giggle of self-congratulation on being too
modern for such prejudices. "I simply love the night-air, don't you?" she
continued. "I often go out for a stroll in the garden the last thing."

I guessed her intention, but I was not going to compromise myself by
strolling about the Jervaise domain at midnight with Grace Tattersall.

"Do you? Yes," I agreed, as if I were bound to admire her originality.

They are afraid of the night-air, my allegory went on, and having begun
their retreat, they are now sending out their servant for help. I began to
wonder if I were composing the plot of a grand opera?

John's return convinced me that I was not to be disappointed in my
expectation of drama.