“Perhaps,” I hazarded, “I could get the keys.”
“Do you really care very much for old houses?”
“I do,” said I; “and you?”
“I care so much that I nearly broke into this one. I should have done it quite if the windows had been an inch or two lower.”
“I am an inch or two higher,” said I, standing squarely so as to make the most of my six-feet beside her five-feet-five or thereabouts.
“Oh—if you only would!” said she.
“Why not?” said I.
She led the way past the marble basin of the fountain, and along the historic yew avenue, planted, like all old yew avenues, by that industrious gardener our Eighth Henry. Then across a lawn, through a winding, grassy, shrubbery path, that ended at a green door in the garden wall.
“You can lift this latch with a hairpin,” said she, and therewith lifted it.
We walked into a courtyard. Young grass grew green between the grey flags on which our steps echoed.
“This is the window,” said she. “You see there’s a pane broken. If you could get
