"I am looking for an inn. It must be near by. I do--"

"An inn?" with a start.

"I do not recall the name. It is not far from a village, in the
hills."

"Do you mean Burton's?"

"Yes. That's it. Can you direct me?" The voice of the girl was
faint; she seemed about to fall.

"It is six or eight miles from here," said Mrs. Wrandall, still
looking in wonder at the miserable nightfarer.

The girl's head sank; a moan of despair came through her lips,
ending in a sob.

"So far as that?" she murmured. Then she drew herself up with a
fine show of resolution. "But I must not stop here. Thank you."

"Wait!" cried the other. The girl turned to her once more. "Is--is
it a matter of life or death?"

There was a long silence. "Yes. I must find my way there. It
is--death."

Sara Wrandall laid her heavily gloved hand on the slim fingers that
touched the tire.