THE YELLOW DOVE
treetops and the patter of the rain. As hope returned, Hammersley questioned quickly:
“You are ready to go?”
“Yes,” she replied eagerly.
“The sheets?”
“Here. I have prepared.”
It was dark and he could not see, but he followed the sheet to its end with his hand and found that it was fastened to the bedpost. How she had managed to move the heavy bed across the room he did not know, and it was unnecessary to question, for there it was. He reassured himself as to the knot that she had made and then fastened his own sheets to the other end.
“Do you think you can manage it alone? It will not hold us both.”
“Try me,” she whispered bravely.
“The rope will reach almost to the kitchen roof.”
“Yes, it is just below. I could see the edge of it through the shutter this afternoon.”
He caught her in his arms and their lips met.
“I will go first. Then when the tension relaxes, you follow.”
She pressed his hand as he slid his feet out of the window and paused crouching on the ledge listening. Then he waved his hand and slowly went down. He knew that the angle of the building quite hid him from the garden path, and he slid down the improvised rope as quickly as he could until his feet dangled in space. He looked below him, but in the darkness the distance was uncertain. Had Lindberg miscalculated? Or had Doris used too much of the sheet at the upper end? He let himself down until his hands groped the end of the sheet while he felt for a landing with his toes.
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