130
WYLDER'S HAJVD.
Like most rustic communities, Gylingden and its neigh-
borhood were early in bed. Few lights burned after
half-past ten, and the whole vicinity was deep in its slum-
bers before twelve o'clock.
At that dread hour, Captain Lake, about a mile on the
Dollington, which was the old London road from Gyling-
den, was pacing backward and forward under the tower-
ing files of beech that overarch it at that point.
Stanley Lake did not like waiting any more than did
Louis XIV. He was really a little tired of acting sen-
try, and was very peevish by the time the ring of wheels
and horse-hoofs approaching from the London direction
became audible. Even so, he had a longer wait than he
expected, sounds are heard so far by night. At last,
however, it drew nearer — nearer — quite close — and a
sort of nondescript vehicle — one horsed — loomed in the
dark, and he calls —
"Hallo! there — I say — a passenger for the 'White
House?'
At the same moment, a window of the cab — shall we
call it — was let down, and a female voice — Rachel
Lake's — called to the driver to stop.
Lake addressed the driver —
"You come from Johnson's Hotel — don't you — at
Dollington?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I'll pay you half-fare to bring me there."
''All right, sir. But the 'oss, sir, must 'av 'is oats
fust."
"Feed him here, then. They are all asleep in the
'White House.' I'll be with you in five minutes, and
you shall have something for yourself when we get into
Dollington."
Stanley opened the door. She placed her hand on his,