She drew the curtain and looked out.  The night was celestial.  A brilliant, full moon flooded the dark earth and purple sea with silvery radiance; the sky was cloudless—­blue as Mollie Dane’s eyes, the stars beyond number, big and bright.

A faint sea-breeze just stirred the swaying trees; the surf broke in a dull, monotonous wash on the shining strand; even the dreary Long Island farmhouse and its desolate surroundings were transfigured and glorified by the radiant moonlight.

Mrs. Susan Sharpe was an inestimable woman in her way, but neither a poet nor an artist.  She gave a complacent glance at earth, and sky, and water, thankful that the benign influences, in the way of weather, were at work to aid them.

“It’s a very nice night,” murmured Mrs. Susan Sharpe.  “Couldn’t be better if they tried ever so much.  It would have been dreadful awkward if it rained.  How still the house is—­like a tomb!  Dear me, I hope there was no harm done by that drug!  I must go and get ready at once.”

But just at that moment she heard a sharp, shrill, prolonged whistle.  She paused.  An instant more and a man vaulted lightly over the high board fence.

“Lor’!” said Mrs. Sharpe, “if it isn’t him already!  I hope the dogs are done for.”

It seemed as if they were, for, as she looked and listened, in considerable trepidation, the man approached the house in swift, swinging strides.  Of course, it was the peddler.  Mrs. Sharpe threw up her window and projected her head.

“Mr. Ingelow!”

“Halloo!”

The man halted and looked up.

“Where are the dogs?”

“In the dogish elysium, I hope.  Dead and done for, Sarah.  Come down, like a good girl, and let me in.”

“I’m not sure that they’re fast asleep.”

“Oh, they are,” said Hugh Ingelow, confidently, “if you administered the drug and they drank the tea.”

“I did,” said Mrs. Sharpe, “and they drank the tea and went to bed awful sleepy.  If you think it’s safe, I’ll go down.”

“All right.  Come along.”

Mrs. Sharpe lowered the sash and hurried down stairs.  Bolts clattered, the lock creaked, but the sleepers in the house made no sign.  A second or two and the nocturnal marauders were together in the hall.

“I told you it was safe,” said Mr. Ingelow.  “You are a woman in a thousand, Sarah, to manage so cleverly!  Now, then, for Miss Dane!  Upstairs, is it?  Do you go in first, Sarah; but don’t tell her I’m coming.  I want the pleasure of surprising her myself.”

Sarah smiled, and unlocked Mollie’s door.  The girl was sitting with an anxious, listening, expectant face.  She rose up and turned around at the opening of the door.

“Is it you, nurse?  Oh, I have been so uneasy!  What noise was—­”

She never finished the sentence—­it died out in an inarticulate cry of joy.  For Hugh Ingelow, his disguise torn off, stood in the door-way, smiling and serene as the god of safety himself.