the best conspirators' style, and glued his eyes upon the impelling
sight. Not that the girl herself was peculiarly fascinating to the eye.
The porch-light revealed her perfectly: a small, dark, nondescript
child, not above thirteen years old, rather badly dressed and, to say
truth, not attractive-looking in any way. But to Varney, at the moment,
she was the most irresistibly interesting figure in the six continents.

She came to the top of the step and stood there, peering out into the
darkness as though looking for some one. Varney, from his dark retreat
stared back at her. There they stood unexpectedly face to face, the
kidnapper and his quarry. A sudden wild impulse seized the young man to
act immediately: to make a dash from his cover, bind the girl's mouth
with his handkerchief, toss her over his shoulder, and fly with her to
the yacht. That was the way these things ought to be done, not by the
tedious and furtive methods of chicanery. But, since this man-like
method was forbidden him, why should he not at least cross boldly and go
in--a lost wayfarer inquiring for directions--anything to start up the
vitally necessary acquaintance? Would he ever have a better chance?

The thought had hardly come to him before the child herself killed it.
She turned as suddenly as she had come and disappeared into the house.
That broke the spell; and Varney, interested by the discovery that his
heart was beating above normal, slipped unseen from his lurking-place,
and resumed his interrupted progress after Peter and Hare.

Beyond the Carstairs's fence of hedge, the houses stopped with the
sidewalk. The highway, having no longer anything to keep up appearances
for, dwindled into an ordinary country road, meandering through an
ordinary country wood. What could have carried Peter out here it was
impossible to conceive; but clearly something had, and Varney raced on,