Above was Mrs. Cranston’s window.  Craig picked up some bits of broken stone from a walk about the house and threw them gently against the pane.  Then we drew back into the shadow of the house, lest any prying eyes might discover us.  In a few minutes the window on the second floor was stealthily opened.  The muffled figure of Mrs. Cranston appeared in the dim light; then a piece of string was lowered.

To it Kennedy attached a light silk ladder and motioned in pantomime for her to draw it up.  It took her some time to fasten the ladder to one of the heavy pieces of furniture in the room.  Swaying from side to side, but clinging with frantic desperation to the ladder while we did our best to steady it, she managed to reach the ground.  She turned from the building with a shudder, and whispered: 

“This terrible place!  How can I ever thank you for getting me out of it?”

Kennedy did not pause long enough to say a word, but hurried her across to the final barrier, the wall.

Suddenly there was a shout of alarm from the front of the house under the columns.  It was the night watchman, who had discovered us.

Instantly Kennedy seized a chair from a little summer-house.

“Quick, Walter,” he cried, “over the wall with Mrs. Cranston, while I hold him!  Then throw the ladder back on this side.  I’ll join you in a moment, as soon as you get her safely over.”

A chair is only an indifferent club, if that is all one can think of using it for.  Kennedy ran squarely at the watchman, holding it out straight before him.  Only once did I cast a hasty glance back.  There was the man pinned to the wall by the chair, with Kennedy at the other end of it and safely out of reach.

Mrs. Cranston and I managed to scramble over the wall, although she tore her dress on the pickets before we reached the other side.  I hustled her into the car and made everything ready to start.  It was only a couple of minutes after I threw the ladder back before Craig rejoined us.

“How did you get away from the watchman?” I demanded, breathlessly, as we shot away.

“I forced him back with the chair into the hall and slammed the door.  Then I jammed a wedge under it,” he chuckled.  “That will hold it better than any lock.  Every push will jam it tighter.”

Above the hubbub, inside now, we could hear a loud gong sounding insistently.  All about were lights flashing up at the windows and moving through the passageways.  Shouts came from the back of the house as a door was finally opened there.  But we were off now, with a good start.

I could imagine the frantic telephoning that was going on in the sanatorium.  And I knew that the local police of Montrose and every other town about us were being informed of the escape.  They were required by the law to render all possible assistance, and, as the country boasted several institutions quite on a par with Belleclaire, an attempt at an escape was not an unusual occurrence.