At last there hove in sight, coming from the direction in which lay the prison, a group of three men.  It was a jaunty party, evidently under the influence of many libations.  They came with arms linked, with dignified but unsteady gait, their hats well back on their heads.  In the middle was a very tall man, flanked on one side by a very short fat one, on the other by a slender youth who wanted to sing.

She recognised them and would have drawn back to a less exposed spot, but the slender youth saw her before she could do so.  He shouted to his companions as if they were two blocks away.

“There she is!  Hooray!”

They bore down upon her.  The next instant they were solemnly shaking hands with her, much to her dismay.

“Cons’ance, we’ve been lookin’ f-fer you ever’-where in town.  W-where on earth ’ve you been?” asked Mr. Rodney thickly, with a laudable attempt at severity.

“Ever sinch ’leven o’clock, Conshance,” supplemented Freddie, trying to frown.

“My dear Miss F-Fowler,” began Odell-Carney in, his most suave manner, “it is after two o’clock.  In—­in the morning at that.  You—­you shouldn’t be sittin’ here all ’lone thish—­this hour in the morning.  Please come home with us.  Your mother hash—­has ask us to fetch you—­I mean your sister.  Beg pardon.”

“I—­I cannot go, gentlemen,” she stammered.  “Please don’t insist—­please don’t ask why.  I cannot go—­”

“I shay, Conshance, by Jove, the joke’s on you,” exclaimed Freddie.  “I know who ‘t ish you’re waitin’ f-for.  Well, he can’t come.  He’s locked in.”

“Freddie, you are drunk!” in deep scorn.

“I know it,” he admitted cheerfully.  “We’ve looked ever’where for you.  We’re your frien’s.  He said it was at ‘n eatin’-house.  We’ve been ever’ eatin’-house in Inchbrook.  Was here first of all.  Leave it to Rodney.  Wassen we, Rodney?  You bet we was.  You wassen here at ’leven o’clock.  Come on home, Conshance.  ’S all right.  He’s safe.  He can’t come.”

“But he will come, unless something terrible has happened to him,” she almost sobbed in her desperation.  “Cousin Alfred, won’t you go to the gaol and see what has happened?”

Mr. Rodney took off his hat gallantly and would have gone to do her bidding had not Mr. Odell-Carney laid a restraining grip upon his shoulder.

“Let me explain, Miss F-Fowler.  You shee—­see, he told us you’d be here, but, hang it all, you wassen here wh-when we came.  Never give up, says I to my frien’s.  We’ll search till doomshday.  I knew we’d find you if we kep’ on searching.  Thash jus’ wot I said to Roddy, didn’ I, Roddy?  We mush have overlokked yo’ when we were here at ’leven.”

“I was not here at eleven,” she cried breathlessly.

“Thash jus’ what I tol’ ’em,” insisted Freddie triumphantly.  “I saysh:  ‘What’s use lookin’ here?  She—­she isn’t on top of any these tables,’ an’ I—­I knew you wassen unner ’em.  You ain’t—­”