The girl laughed.  The thought of possible gossip seemed to disturb her not at all.  “Oh, it will be all right as soon as we explain,” confidently.  “But Aunt Amy will be terrified.  If we could only get word to Aunt Amy!  I don’t mind so much about Mrs. Sykes, for she is always prepared for everything.  She will comfort herself with remembering how she said when she saw it was going to be a lovely day:  ’It may be a fine enough morning, Esther, but I have a feeling that something will happen before night.  I have put in an umbrella in case of rain and a pair of rubbers and a rug and you’d better take my smelling salts.  I hope you won’t have an accident, I’m sure, but it’s best to be forewarned.’”

The doctor glanced up from his tinkering to join in her laugh.  He felt ashamed of himself.  The possibility of evil tongues making capital of their enforced position had certainly never entered into the thought of this smiling girl.  Yet that such a possibility might exist in Coombe as well as in other places he did not doubt.  And she was in his charge.  The thought of her clear eyes looking upon the thing which she did not know enough to dread made him feel positively sick!

When he spoke to her again there was a subtle change in his manner.  He had become at once her senior, the physician, and man of the world.

“Miss Esther,” he said, leaving his futile tampering with the machine, “I can see no way out of this but one.  I am a good walker and a fast one.  I shall leave you here with the car and the rugs and a revolver (there is one in the tool box), and go back along the road.  I shall walk until I come to somewhere and then get a carriage or wagon—­also a chaperone—­and come back for you.  It is positively the only thing to do.”

Esther’s charming mouth drooped delicately at the corners.  “Oh no!  That’s not at all a nice plan.  I’m afraid to stay here.  Not of bears, but of tramps—­or—­or something.”

“Where there are no houses there will be no tramps.”

“There may be.  You never can tell about tramps.  And I couldn’t shoot a tramp.  The very best I could do would be to shoot myself—­”

“But—­”

“And I might bungle even that!” pathetically.

“But, my dear girl—­”

“And anyway, I’ve thought of another plan.  There is a place on the lake, on this side.  Not a house exactly, but a log cabin, where old Prue lives.  Did you ever hear of old Prue?  She is a man-hater and a recluse and lives all by herself in the bush.  It is a dreadful place and she keeps a fierce dog!  But perhaps she keeps a boat, too.  She must keep a boat,” cheerfully, “because she lives right by the water and I know she fishes.  If she would only let us have the boat!  But I warn you she may refuse.  She is like the witch in ‘Hansel and Gretel.’  Do you remember—­”

But at the first mention of the boat, the doctor had sprung to action and was now standing ready laden with the basket and the rug.  With the air of a man who has never heard of “Hansel and Gretel” he slipped a most businesslike revolver into a pocket of his coat.  “For the dog, if necessary,” he said.  “We must have that boat!  Is it far?”