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Proofed by an unsing hero.

RED HART MAGIC
Andre Norton



All rights reserved. Copyright © 1976 by Andre Norton



The writer wishes to express her appreciation to Ms. Marge Geddes, the present 
owner of "Red Hart Inn," who very kindly permitted the use of one of her 
treasures for the background of this story. And she wishes to express her 
appreciation also to Ms. Marian Maeve O'Brien, in whose book Collectors' Guide 
to Dollhouses and Dollhouse Miniatures, the writer first came across the 
photograph and story of the inn.



1
We're Not a Family
Chris Fitton's shoulders were against the wall, his hands thrust deep into the 
pockets of his jeans. Behind his glasses, his eyes were half closed in a way he 
had been many times told was sullen.
The carpet was green and shaggy, like grass which needed a closer cutting. While 
it looked fine against the white-cream walls of the room, the color certainly 
did not match the furniture standing around on it, as if each chair, each table, 
and the divan would rather be in another place.
One of these chairs was just the wrong shade of green against the grass-green 
carpet. Another was orange, bright enough to make your eyes ache, while the 
divan was a mustard-yellow and along it were scattered a lot of fat cushions, 
each of a different pattern. After one quick glance in that direction, however, 
Chris turned his eyes resolutely to the two big windows, because she was sitting 
there.
Nan Mallory had planted her feet close together in a show of determination she 
did not in the least feel. Her hands were locked in her lap, her elbows nudged 
two stiff cushions which were never made to provide anyone any comfort, rather 
to show off Aunt Elizabeth's skill at needlework. "Aunt Elizabeth"—Nan's feeling 
of abandonment made her a little sick. It was not her aunt who lived here; this 
was not her kind of place. She hated the apartment so fiercely she longed to run 
as fast and as far as she could.

Though where could she run to? There was not any place or anybody—now. Inside 
she shivered. Nobody must know how she felt—especially not him. She would not 
look in his direction. Aunt Elizabeth with her talk of brothers! They were not 
family at all, nor were they ever going to be! She would write to Grandma 
Bergman, though already she was sadly certain, that would do no good at all.
Grandma could not take her, not since she had moved to Sunnyside 'way down in 
Florida. She had explained it all to Nan, how you could only have grandchildren 
for visits there. So when Mother wrote and said—
Nan set her teeth hard together, lifted her chin a fraction—when Mother said she 
was going to get married again and was going to be away six months with Mr. 
Hawes (that is what Nan would always call him—just plain old Mr. Hawes; he 
certainly was not her father!) in Mexico and that Nan must stay with Aunt 
Elizabeth—Well, Grandma agreed just like that. As if Nan were a suitcase or 
something which could be sent around from one place to another! Well, they would 
find out! Somehow, somehow, she would go—where? There was nowhere for her to 
go—no old house in Elmsport any more—nothing.
Maybe she could have stood being here—just maybe—if he had not been here, too. 
Just last night he had called her stupid right to her face and said she ought to 
shut up when she did not know what she was talking about. Stupid! He looked 
stupid—mean, too, with his squinty eyes and his mouth set to say something to 
make a person want to hit him back.



Chris moved one foot an inch or so forward, pressing down a bit of the carpet 
grass. This was about the worst yet. Even worse than staying at Brixton two 
years ago over the holidays, when he was the only kid left and the teachers had 
to be stuck with him. Of course, he ought to be used to it by now. Only he had 
thought that maybe this year—when he was old enough to show some sense—Dad might 
just consider taking him along. Then—Chris tried to close his mind. Her—her and 
this one across the room—they certainly made a mess of things for him. Aunt 
Elizabeth all the time talking about being a family! That was certainly dumb; 
there was no family! There was Dad and that woman—gone off together. And there 
was Aunt Elizabeth and her here. And none of them were his family. He did not 
have any family, and he was not going to be pushed into even saying he did 
either.
If he was sure Aunt Elizabeth would not come charging in and want to know what 
he was doing, he would go back to his room right now. He had brought the model 
kit he had saved up for; he had not even unpacked it yet. Trouble was that he 
could not find any place in his room to work on it. He might even lose some of 
the parts if he opened the box and Aunt Elizabeth made him move it around. He 
had a couple of books he could read. But he already knew what Aunt Elizabeth 
thought about sitting reading—
Chris scowled. He knew what he wanted to do; and it was not spending the morning 
in here with that dummy over there, nor was it being a "regular boy" as Aunt 
Elizabeth kept talking about. He was a boy, and he was as regular as he wanted 
to be right now.
"Chris—Nan—"
Chris's shoulders twitched, and Nan's head jerked. Neither answered. Then Aunt 
Elizabeth was no longer in the hall but right there in the living room. Beaming 
as if she had invented them both, Chris thought.
She talked and she laughed all the time, as if that way she could make them do 
or want to be what she thought they should, Nan decided. Sometimes that flood of 
words poured over you until you got so tired you would say yes or no without 
really noticing what you were answering.
"Such luck"—the bright voice rasped on Chris's ears—"tickets!" Aunt Elizabeth 
was waving one hand in the air like a magician who had materialized something 
special. "Tickets to the Disney Festival at the Rockland! I can drop you there 
on my way to see Cousin Philip at the hospital and pick you up at four. You see, 
things work out splendidly if one just does a little planning—"
Her smile looks as if it were pasted on, Nan decided. I bet she does not want us 
here any more than I want to be in this old apartment. If she would just let me 
alone—not always be pushing me around—
At the moment she refused to see any attraction in Aunt Elizabeth's treat. 
Disney—probably a lot of silly cartoons for little kids. But there was no 
escape. She would have to go with him just as Aunt Elizabeth planned, a whole 
afternoon of having to sit beside somebody who acted as if she were not real at 
all.
For the first time she glanced quickly at and then away from Chris. He stared at 
Aunt Elizabeth, his face blank. Did he always look that way, Nan wondered, as if 
he did not want to know anyone? What did he really like to do?
Aunt Elizabeth had talked on and on last night, telling them about all the 
things ahead. She had planned out everything—school and friends—picked out what 
was "best" for them both. Now, for the first time, there came a small crack in 
Nan's shell of resentment as a new thought crossed her mind. Did he hate being 
here as much as she did?
He certainly was not much to look at—always slouching around in spite of Aunt 
Elizabeth's pleas to "straighten up." His face was round, and his glasses 
somehow made his eyes look small; just as they always looked half closed, as if 
he were sleepy or so bored he could not bear to look clearly at anything. He 
wore that blue T-shirt which matched his jeans, and his hair was white-blond, so 
his brows and lashes hardly showed. He was short for his age, too, hardly any 
taller than she herself. There was a faded stain of paint or something down the 
front of his shirt, and his shoes looked as if he had been tramping through 
trash heaps for months.
Nan lifted her head a little more, allowing Aunt Elizabeth's words to flow over 
her, to face her own reflection in the mirror above the mantel. At least she 
looked neat. She had on the candy-striped shirt Grandma had made her and her red 
slacks. And she had combed her hair—which, she bet, was more than he had done 
this morning.
Her hair was a little more than shoulder-length and dark brown, and her skin was 
rather brownish, too. A trace of summer tan always stayed with her through the 
whole year. Summer—she had about lived on the beach at Elmsport. But she was not 
going to allow herself to remember Elmsport—no, she was not.
"And a clean shirt, please Chris. You cannot go out looking so untidy."
Nan smiled a little. That was telling him! And it was the truth, too. Even if 
she liked Chris, she would have not wanted to go to the show with someone who 
looked as if he had been burrowing into a dump.
"Yes, Aunt Elizabeth." He was not scowling maybe, but his voice sounded, Nan 
decided, as if he would like to. It was polite, but the kind of polite one heard 
when a person was "mad clean through," as Grandma used to say. She watched him 
with interest. Would that politeness crack, so he would tell Aunt Elizabeth just 
what he thought?
Nan was sure now that he did not care for this arrangement any more than she 
did. But Aunt Elizabeth was his Aunt Elizabeth, not hers, so if anybody talked 
back let it be him. She herself was going to keep her mouth shut, just the way 
Grandma had always told her: count ten and then ten again before you answer, no 
matter how mad you are. Grandma said keeping quiet got a person through a lot of 
hard places better than letting one's tongue wag free.
For a moment Nan felt sick again. Grandma! She wanted Grandma and Elmsport, and 
things to be the way they had always been, before Mother stirred everything up. 
Mother was hardly ever at home anyway, always going off somewhere to write about 
a new place for Travel Magazine. Mother never seemed as real as Grandma, just a 
person who flitted in and out, always in a hurry, thinking about something else 
when you tried to talk about things which mattered to you.
He had gone. Probably to change his shirt. That gave Aunt Elizabeth a chance to 
get at her. Nan stiffened warily.
"You look very nice, dear."
Starting off soft, Nan believed. She looked all right, she guessed, but she was 
nothing spectacular.
"Perhaps there will be letters," Aunt Elizabeth continued with that brightness 
which made Nan so uncomfortable. "You will be so glad to hear from your mother, 
I know."
"Mother never writes much," Nan said flatly. "Sometimes she sends postcards. But 
she's busy all the time writing things that sell. Letters don't."
Aunt Elizabeth's smile appeared a little strained for a moment.
"Postcards are nice, too," she asserted too quickly.
Nan stiffened again. Maybe Mother did not write many letters, and maybe 
sometimes Nan wished she did; but it was not Aunt Elizabeth's place to say so, 
or even to think it.
"Mother won the Cleaver Award for her Iranian article last year," she said. 
"That's very important. She had to go to Washington, to a big party, and it was 
on TV. Grandma and I watched."
"Yes, of course." Aunt Elizabeth's smile was now firmly back in place. "You have 
every right to be proud of your mother, Nan."
Nan looked down at her tightly folded hands. One could be proud of Mother, even 
if one did not know her. But she loved Grandma! If only Grandma had not decided 
that the house was too big and the doctor had not said she must live in a warmer 
place than Elmsport. Then, with Mother's getting married and all—Well, Nan was 
here, and she would have to make the best of it until she could figure out some 
way to make it better.
He had come back, and he did have on a clean T-shirt. At least it looked 
different, though it was the same faded blue, for there was no stain down the 
front. But Aunt Elizabeth did not seem too pleased.
"Chris, don't you have any other kind of shirt? I must go through your wardrobe 
and see just what you do need. Oh, well, at least it looks clean, and you'll 
have your jacket on over it. I thought we would leave early and have lunch at 
Magnim's on the way. This is Clara's day off, and I haven't got time to cook 
myself." She glanced at her wristwatch. "Chris, you run down to Haines and tell 
him to call a taxi. We'll be down in a jiffy."
Nan went for her own coat just as Chris, his jacket only half on, slipped out 
the apartment door. Aunt Elizabeth pushed at her hair in front of the hall 
mirror. She had on a hat which she could not seem to set at just the right angle 
and was frowning at her reflection.
With her navy-blue coat on and her patchwork purse in hand, Nan came back just 
as Aunt Elizabeth turned away from the mirror and slid into her own coat, 
grabbed up her shoulder bag.
"Come on!" she urged Nan. "Mustn't keep the taxi waiting, not with money as 
tight as it is."
They went down in the self-service elevator, which Nan had hated from the first. 
It made her feel as if she were caught in a trap. She almost held her breath as 
she watched the light flicker along the numbers above the door until they 
stepped out into the lobby.
At home Nan had never become so upset over little things. But then there 
everything was familiar, and she felt safe. Here where everything was new and so 
different, she would rather stay in than go out.



Chris stood outside next to the big doorman. There was the taxi Aunt Elizabeth 
had sent him to order. He glanced right and left along the street. Why could 
they not walk? Aunt Elizabeth always took cabs; then the cabs got stuck in 
traffic. You would really save time by walking. Also there were the stores—
He wondered if there was a shop that sold model kits near here. Dad had sent 
him—he felt in his pocket, and his fingers crooked around the bill he had rolled 
up. It was more than Dad had ever given him before, as if he was—Was Dad trying 
to make up in that way for dumping him on Aunt Elizabeth? Anyhow it was Chris's 
own money, and he would spend it just as he wanted to this time. He would pick 
out something really super; when he saw it, he would know. That is, if he ever 
got a chance to go shopping. So far Aunt Elizabeth had laid down the rules, and 
at first he would have to do what she said; at least until he learned more about 
this place.
"Here we are!"
Involuntarily Chris's shoulder hunched as Aunt Elizabeth's gloved hand tightened 
there.
"Thank you, Haines," she said as she swept Chris after Nan to the waiting taxi.
Magnim's was very different from the hotel where Grandma had twice taken Nan for 
Sunday dinner. There were tables in a big room, and a lot of conversation—a roar 
of sound. Aunt Elizabeth did not let either of them look at the menu and make 
their own choices. As if they were babies, she did the ordering in a firm voice. 
Nan picked at salad with a dressing which smelled funny and tasted even queerer, 
turning with some relief to a chicken sandwich. Luckily there was ice cream 
afterward.
Chris ate slowly, chewing as if he were counting the number of times his jaw 
must move up and down. Aunt Elizabeth fidgeted and kept looking at her watch.
"Chris," she said at last, a fraction more sharply. "You must finish. We shall 
be late. As it is, I have to drop you off at the theater and get on to the 
hospital. And, remember, you are to wait in the lobby when you come out, unless 
you see me there already. With traffic as it is, I might just be delayed."
Deliberately Chris drank the rest of his milk. "Yes, Aunt Elizabeth," he 
answered.
It was when the taxi drew into the other lane so they could pause in front of 
the theater that Chris saw the red sign which was too big to be missed. 
Salvation Army Store! One of those! Once more he fingered the bill in his 
pocket. Last year he had discovered the treasure house that sign meant. All 
kinds of things were sold there. Why, he had gotten five books—good ones—for a 
dollar, and a transistor radio, old but fixed up so it ran fine. Then there was 
the time he discovered a box of all kinds of shells. Somebody had mounted them 
on cards with their names printed under them.
He shot a glance at Aunt Elizabeth. She was looking at her watch again. They 
must be pretty late. If he could just—
The taxi pulled to a stop, though the meter still clicked busily. Aunt Elizabeth 
opened the door with one hand and shoved the tickets at Chris with the other.
"Go right in. It must be just starting, so hurry. Remember, stay in the lobby 
until you see me."
"Sure," he agreed. Then he was standing next to Nan, and the taxi had again 
swung from the curb.
Chris held out one of the tickets in her direction.
"Here," he said shortly, "you go on in."
"Aren't you coming?"
To Chris this was too good a chance to miss. There was no telling when he might 
be able to get out alone again.
"Not now," he answered curtly. "You go in."
Nan made no move to take the ticket though he tried to press it into her hand.
"What are you going to do?" she demanded.
"Don't be so stupid." His temper flared for an instant. "You go in. It's none of 
your business. Now is it?"
Slowly she shook her head. "But Aunt Elizabeth—"
"Go on!" He wanted to push her through the door. Throwing Aunt Elizabeth at him 
that way—
"All right!" Nan took the ticket.
Chris waited only long enough to see her reach the outer door of the lobby; then 
he turned and was gone, back up the street. Nan opened the door and let it close 
again, with her still outside. Chris was up to something. She had no intention 
of meekly going in to watch Disney, not now. She was going to see where he went 
and learn why.



2
Bargain Counter
Luckily Chris did not look back, so Nan did not have to dodge into any shop 
doorways but could trail him openly. Then he did turn to look into a big window. 
She caught a glimpse of the sign up above: "Salvation Army." What in the world 
was Chris doing going in there? She scuttled ahead, not really understanding why 
she must follow him, but knowing that somehow it was important.
As she, in turn, peered through the big window she could only see the mass of 
things on display: furniture, a baby crib, a lamp. What did Chris want with old 
things like these?
Nan's curiosity was so aroused that, in turn, she dared to go inside. It was 
rather like a discount store, only a lot more crowded. There were three women by 
one counter. One of them kept reaching down to measure dresses against a little 
girl with a runny nose, who whined she wanted to go home. Another woman was 
pushing and pulling apart coats hung along a big rack, fingering their material 
and looking at the tickets pinned to their sleeves.
But where was Chris, and what had he come here for?
No one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Nan sidled by the women at the 
dress counter, moving toward the back of the store where Chris must have gone.
There were counters here like in a real shop—cases with transistors, and 
toasters, a couple of boxes with jewelry lying on dark cloth in them, while on 
the tops of the cases balanced some handbags, beyond them some cups and saucers, 
each with a different flower pattern, a number of belts. Then she caught sight 
of him and stopped by the belts.
Chris was busy at a big table where there were piles of old books and magazines. 
Some of those were tied up in bundles with price tags stuck under the twine 
which held them together. Those he pushed aside to look at the books.
He thumbed down the line of volumes. There were some how-to-do-it books, but 
just about gardening and stuff like that. Nothing really useful. Old story books 
with the lettering on their backs so dim you had to look really close to read 
the titles—nothing but Hardy Boys and things he had already read, like Tarzan 
and Huckleberry Finn. Somehow Chris felt a strong disappointment. It had been so 
easy getting here, as if he were meant to find something really good. He pushed 
another pile of National Geographics to one side. There was only a battered Tom 
Swift—kid stuff.
As he worked his way around the table, Chris's frustration grew. But he would 
find something; he was determined on that. Now he moved to the next big table. 
Toys—there was part of a railroad set. Not much good unless you had more pieces; 
anyway he did not care for trains. Two Panda bears, and a whole row of dolls. A 
pile of jigsaw-puzzle boxes caught his eye, and he glanced at the cover 
pictures. No good. Not when he had no place he could start a puzzle and just 
leave it out. Turn up with one of those, and Aunt Elizabeth might ask questions.
Impatiently he pushed past the toy table and reached the glass-fronted case at 
the very back of the store. Guns—old guns—and a sword! Again he realized there 
was no hope of ever keeping such a secret in the apartment.
There were some plates, cups—Oh, these were the antiques, the old things people 
collected. He lingered before a set of dull-surfaced coins laid out carefully on 
a strip of threadbare velvet. But he did not know anything about coins. There 
was a box of stamps all thrown together—
Chris knew what he longed to find, a buy so different that it would make this 
stay with Aunt Elizabeth worthwhile. He had to find it!
"Looking for something, son?"
Startled, Chris glanced up at the man standing behind the case. He was smiling 
but watchful. Maybe they watched all kids in here, thought they might grab 
something.
"Got any model kits?" He asked to prove that he was a prospective customer and 
not a shoplifter.
"Model kits? Let me see." The man went to the wall shelves where there were 
boxes piled. Chris moved farther along the case. Beyond the box of stamps were 
three daggers laid out, one with a silver hilt. Chris regarded them longingly 
but knew he had no chance of getting one of those. That man was not going to 
sell him a knife, not even if he could afford it.
Beyond the daggers was something else. At first glance Chris thought it a 
dollhouse, but a very small one. He would have passed over it, except there was 
something about it—He had never seen a house just like it, except in a book 
once. And that picture flashed into his mind. It was not a dollhouse. It was the 
model of an inn! There was the high arch of an entrance, flanking the smaller 
door; that was where the old coaches drove through to an inner courtyard. The 
upper part of the building was a cream yellow with broad dark beams across it in 
an angled pattern. The tiny windows had threadlike markings on them, dividing 
their glass into bits of panes, diamond in shape.
"Here you are, Columbus's flagship, and a World War II bomber—"

Chris hardly heard what the man said as he slid two boxes onto the top of the 
case.
"That"—he pointed at the inn—"What's that? A dollhouse?"
"That? Oh, you mean the peep show."
Chris did not take his eyes from the inn as he asked, "What's a peep show?"
"You look in the windows, see?" The man slid open the back of the case after he 
had unlocked it. He lifted out the inn and put it down before Chris. "It's old, 
that. A real unusual piece."
Chris fumbled for his money. "How much?" he demanded without taking his eyes 
from it. He knew he had found what he had come for, something which would be 
his, transform this stay with Aunt Elizabeth into a period of time he could get 
through.
"It's not a toy." The man sounded impatient. "Not now anyway. It's an antique."
"How much?" Chris repeated doggedly. If Dad's gift was not enough, he would get 
the rest somehow. He had to have that! It was different from any model he had 
ever fooled around with, and he wanted to take it up in his hands, look through 
those tiny windows, just feel it.
"Ten dollars." The man's hand had already closed upon the inn. He was going to 
put it away again as if he were very sure that Chris did not have ten dollars.
"I'll take it." Chris brought out his bill, smoothed it flat. "See, I have the 
money, more than enough. It's mine," he added, guessing what the expression on 
the man's face meant now. "I had a birthday," he improvised—no use going into 
the facts of why Dad might have given it to him—"It's a present, and I can spend 
it on anything I like."
For a moment the man looked from Chris to the crumpled bill and then back again. 
Chris must have sounded convincing, for at last he nodded. Then he reached for a 
box and carefully slid the inn into it.
"Come up to the cash register, son." He did not give the box to Chris; rather, 
he carried both it and the money as if he expected some difficulty over the sale 
might still arise.
Nan had just time to dodge behind a rack of suits as Chris turned. He had bought 
something. But what? And he seemed different somehow, as he passed without 
seeing her, as if he had found something exciting. She wanted to know what made 
him look like that, so different from the sullen boy who had ignored her and 
made his dislike so plain.
She squeezed along behind the racks and by the counters on the other side of the 
store. Luckily Chris never looked in her direction, and she was able to reach 
the door and get out before he moved away from the cash register.
Surely now he would return to the theater, and she did not want him to know that 
she had followed him. She trotted back to the lobby but did not pass the 
ticket-taker. If Chris did not come, she would not go in alone.
But he did come. Only when he saw her sitting on the bench, he scowled. "What're 
you doing here?"
"Waiting for you." She hoped her voice sounded just as snappy as his. "I'm not 
going in by myself."
"All right, I won't make you."
He had the box under his arm, hugging it close to him. Now he marched straight 
past her, holding his ticket in one hand and heading toward the inner door.
Nan got up quickly and got out her own ticket. She wanted to tell him she knew 
where he had gone and to demand to know what he had in the box, but better 
judgment suggested that she keep her mouth shut. She was sure Chris was not 
going to answer any questions now.
He did not even wait for her, though she was certain he knew she was following 
him, but walked firmly on into the dark of the theater where the sound track was 
loud with rolling thunder. Nan trailed behind, her irritation growing with every 
step.
Surely when Aunt Elizabeth came, she would notice the box and ask questions. But 
later, as they emerged blinking into the lobby, Nan did not see the box. There 
was, she decided after a critical survey, a bulge in the front of Chris's 
jacket. What did he have to hide from Aunt Elizabeth?
Chris himself was faced with just that problem. He had wrapped the box in his 
scarf and left it under the seat, positive during all his efforts to disguise it 
that Nan was going to ask him what in the world he was doing. He had had the 
words, "Mind your own business," on his lips all the time he worked to conceal 
his purchase. But Nan, caught in spite of herself by the story on the screen at 
that moment, had apparently not been aware of what he was doing.
He could not quite understand why he felt he must keep the inn a secret. There 
was nothing wrong in spending the money Dad had given him for something he 
wanted. Aunt Elizabeth might try to make something of his leaving Nan and going 
into the Salvation Army place. But he had not been told not to go, and after 
all, he was old enough to do something like that. Yet from the first the inn had 
seemed a secret which he did not want to share with anyone else. Peep show, the 
man had called it. Chris had had no chance to peep into the windows—What was 
inside? He was hot with impatience to get home and see.



Aunt Elizabeth was late, of course. Nan sat at one end of the lobby bench, and 
he at the other. And Chris was so filled with his need for secrecy he did not 
even notice she kept watching him.
Chris had that thing, whatever it was he had bought in the store, stuck under 
his jacket. Nan tried to guess from the lump what it might be. There had been a 
million things, maybe even more, for sale in that store. So what had Chris 
bought from that counter 'way at the back? Not a book, because he had looked all 
over the book table and then gone on.
She had seen the toys on the other table, but he had not stayed there either. 
The case at the back—She was sure there had been guns there. A gun! Had Chris 
bought a gun? He would not dare, and she was sure that the man would not have 
sold him one either. So—
"I am late!" Aunt Elizabeth's voice caught Nan's attention. "I'm sorry! But 
Cousin Philip wanted me to make some phone calls for him, business matters. Come 
on—there's a taxi waiting. I stopped at Fung-How's and got us a Chinese dinner. 
That will be fun, won't it? And how was the show?"
She rattled on, urging them before her into the taxi. Aunt Elizabeth's life, Nan 
decided, was made up of waiting taxis. There were some big boxes on the seat 
giving out smells which Nan found queer; probably these contained the Chinese 
dinner. She shoved them aside and settled into the far corner. Chris sat down 
carefully, one arm up near his chest. He was holding that thing. Would Aunt 
Elizabeth notice?
"How did you like the Disney pictures?" Aunt Elizabeth repeated her question in 
a new way.
"All right," Chris returned without enthusiasm. He wanted nothing but to get 
back to the apartment as quickly as possible. If he had any luck at all, he 
could then reach his room and hide the inn (he would have to find somewhere good 
for that) before Aunt Elizabeth spotted that he carried something.
"It was fine." Chris was surprised when Nan spoke up. "The second picture was 
better—" She had seen all of that, while the first one had been something of a 
muddle because they had missed part. Now she remembered her manners; too 
belatedly, she knew. Grandma would not have been pleased.
"Thank you for the tickets, Aunt Elizabeth." She rather stumbled over the "Aunt 
Elizabeth" part. "It was good of you to let us go."
"I am glad you enjoyed it, child." Aunt Elizabeth smiled. She might be waiting 
for some answer from Chris, too. But he was staring straight ahead and said 
nothing. After a glance at him, Aunt Elizabeth's smile narrowed a little. "Watch 
out for that carton, Nan. We don't want Egg Foo Yong all over the floor, now do 
we?"
Nan obediently steadied the carton, sniffing at the odor from it. She could not 
yet make up her mind whether she wanted to try Egg Foo Yong—whatever that was—or 
not. Mostly she and Grandma always had things one knew, vegetables and fruit 
from their own garden, meat from the butcher's. Grandma didn't like what she 
called "fancied-up" food.
A drizzle began just before they reached the apartment-house door. Aunt 
Elizabeth spoke sharply when Chris did not reach for his share of the boxes. And 
for some reason she could not understand, Nan herself took two, leaving him only 
one. He ought to be able to manage that, even holding on to whatever he had 
inside his jacket. Aunt Elizabeth lingered to pay the taximan, but Haines held 
the door open for them to hurry through.
There was the ordeal of the elevator; then Aunt Elizabeth used her key, and they 
were back in the apartment, carrying the cartons through to the kitchen. Chris 
set his down with a thump on the table and was gone before Nan could turn 
around.
She went to her own room to shed her coat and head scarf. Only this was not her 
room—its tidiness made it Aunt Elizabeth's, not Nan's. All which really belonged 
to her was the picture frame—the double one—on the dressing table. One half of 
that was Grandma, taken last summer out by the big white rosebush. The other was 
the picture of Mother from the Cleaver Award Dinner—Mother who never was at home 
in Nan's room the way Grandma fitted in.
Nan looked at Grandma now. A feeling of loss came over her. She blinked twice 
hastily. If she was silly enough to cry, Aunt Elizabeth would want to know why. 
Think of something else—quick! Think of Chris. What had he brought back and mean 
to keep a secret?



Chris pulled his suitcase out from the closet. He had set the inn carefully on 
the bedside table. Luck had been with him all right. He had fully expected Nan 
to blurt out about his leaving her alone. But she had not. Only briefly, he 
wondered why. A good hiding place—this suitcase—was all he could think of right 
now. He tucked the inn into one corner, using his old hiking shirt as a cover. 
Aunt Elizabeth had already told him there was no wearing that around here. He 
did not even have time to peek into the windows. But there was one thing; when 
he picked up the inn to put it away, he heard a rattle inside. So he was 
extra-careful covering it up and returning the suitcase to the closet. Maybe 
part of the inn was broken. He would have to wait until he had a chance to 
really examine it. If it was broken, he might be able to fix it.
"Chris—Nan—"
Supper! Chris gave a last push to the suitcase, sending it up against the back 
wall of the closet. He would have to watch that Clara did not move it around too 
much when she was cleaning. Clara was pretty energetic when she dusted and 
swept. Aunt Elizabeth did the good china and things herself; he noticed that 
last week. It was one reason why he had not started in on the model. Let Clara 
move one of these once or twice and probably nothing would be left.
Nan was already in the kitchen when Chris slouched in, wearing his usual 
indifferent expression. She did not glance at him as she set out plates and 
silverware. Aunt Elizabeth told him to get the milk and fill their glasses. He 
had discovered that Aunt Elizabeth believed a boy should make himself useful in 
ways Chris did not think at all suitable. But there was no use fighting over it. 
He banged shut the fridge door, and went to get the glasses from the cupboard 
while Aunt Elizabeth dished out a mixture of stuff from the cartons.
"Just home in time," she observed as a gust of wind and sleet beat against the 
window of the small kitchen. "This is going to be a bad night. All right, we're 
ready now—"
Gingerly Nan tasted the small pancake-looking things Aunt Elizabeth called Egg 
Foo Yong. She decided that they were not bad, just strange, and she was hungry. 
There was a sauce to dabble over them—salty—then a brown rice with what looked 
like little bits of ham cut up fine, as well as a portion of what Aunt Elizabeth 
called "Chicken Chow Mein." Nan ate steadily. Chris was cleaning up his plate, 
too. Though he never raised his eyes from that. It was as if eating was a 
business, a job one had to finish as quickly as possible. Only he need not think 
he was going to slide out and leave her with all the dishes. Aunt Elizabeth had 
said this morning they must take turns washing and wiping when Clara was not 
here. Nan watched narrowly for any sign Chris meant to get out of the job.
Aunt Elizabeth was talking, talking. Mostly about this Cousin Philip who meant 
nothing to Nan—though, of course, he was Chris's kin. It seemed, however, that 
Chris did not care about him either, even whether he was in the hospital or not.
The flow of words only stopped when they had fortune cookies. Nan smoothed out 
her strip of paper to read it: "What the eyes see not, the heart craves—" She 
repeated the words aloud.
"Hm"—there was an odd difference in Aunt Elizabeth's smile—"What is yours, 
Chris?"
"Silly stuff! 'Clear conscience never fears midnight knocking,' " he 
half-mumbled.
"Good sound advice," Aunt Elizabeth said. "Now I have to make a long-distance 
call. You can go ahead with the dishes. And, Chris, see the rubbish all gets 
down the hall to the incinerator tonight."
"Yes, Aunt Elizabeth," he replied, crumpling his fortune and throwing it into 
the emptied carton that had held the Egg Foo Yong. But Nan wanted to keep hers 
and think about it, even though she did not quite understand what it meant.



3
The Red Hart
Sunday at Aunt Elizabeth's was different, too. They went to church in the 
morning, Aunt Elizabeth seeing that they were both dressed as she said 
"suitably." This church was a large one where people did not seem to know even 
those who shared the pew with them. Nan missed the friendliness of Grandma's 
church. Chris sat stolidly, as if all were an ordeal to be endured.
But the afternoon was even worse. They had dinner in another big restaurant, and 
then Aunt Elizabeth summoned one of her ever-helpful taxis and carried them off 
to the park, where there was a zoo, a lake, and other supposedly interesting 
things. Chris dragged along so far behind that Aunt Elizabeth was plainly 
annoyed when she turned for about the tenth time to see where he was.
Nan watched a black leopard. She felt sorry for it because the animal was never 
still, pacing back and forth in its cage as if it wanted to be free. She did not 
like the big apes at all; one of them made faces and spit at people who had 
stopped by the cage to watch. But the birds were beautiful with their many 
colors and plumed tails; and there were two lion cubs, who were rolled up 
together on a blanket, asleep like kittens.
Her feet began to ache, and she was glad when Aunt Elizabeth took them into a 
place where Coke and ice cream were sold and they could sit down for a while. It 
was then that Aunt Elizabeth met a friend by the cash register and told them to 
run along and find a table and wait for her.
For the first time that afternoon, Chris spoke directly to Nan. "She thinks 
we're little kids!"
He shoved his dish of ice cream with dangerous force off the tray he was 
carrying. Nan was just in time to save it from crashing to the floor. She pushed 
it back in his direction. "I guess she thinks we like such things. Maybe she 
doesn't know."
Chris glowered at the ice cream, digging a spoon into it as if striking back at 
the world. "I'm not about five years old," he exploded. "The zoo, for pete's 
sake! The zoo, yet!"
"The birds were nice." Nan licked at a spoonful of hot fudge sundae. "I didn't 
like that monkey though, the one who spit at people."
Chris grinned crookedly. "That ape had the right idea. Why not spit at a bunch 
of dumb people come to look at you shut up in there? I don't like to see animals 
in cages—not ever."
Nan found she could agree with that, remembering the leopard.
"But they're all being killed off. If any are to be saved, they'll be in cages."
Chris shook his head vigorously. "Don't have to be in cages. You never saw Lion 
Country, I guess. They have them outside there, free. They walk right across the 
road. You can drive through in a car, but you have to keep your windows shut and 
go real slow."
"When did you see that?" Nan asked.
"Last year. I went to Florida with Butch Wilson and his folks. We took some 
camera shots. There was one old lion sleeping there as if he didn't care about 
anything. And in the next section we had to stop the car 'cause a mother 
antelope was feeding her baby—right in the middle of the road. None of them were 
shut up in cages there."
"My grandma's in Florida," Nan announced. "When I go to see her, maybe we can 
visit your Lion Country."
"You used to live with her. How come you didn't go to Florida with her?"
Nan carefully used her spoon to combine fudge sauce with ice cream, pretending 
to study what she was doing.
"Didn't she want you around any more?"
Now she raised her eyes to answer hotly, "Of course she did! But Dr. Simmons 
said she had to go and live where it was warm. And the only place she could 
afford was Sunnyside Retirement Acres. They don't like children there—you can 
only visit. Then Mother got married."
Chris's face turned blank. His mouth was again a sullen line. "Yeah, they got 
married," he said flatly. "And you had to come to Aunt Elizabeth's to live. You 
don't need to go into that."
"I didn't ask to come here!" she flashed. "She's not my aunt."
Chris shrugged. "Kids always get shoved around, until they're big enough to do 
something about it. No use trying before then."
"What do you plan to do?" Nan inquired. She did not want to think ahead to a 
long time of being shoved around until she was old enough to take measures to 
make her own life. She did not even know now what kind of a life she really 
wanted.
Chris stared down at the table top. "It doesn't matter—not now."
It was as if he had pulled down a heavy curtain between them. Nan went on 
spooning up her sundae. Chris had never really talked with her before, but their 
exchange had not lasted long. He must hate living with Aunt Elizabeth just as 
much as she did. Nan wondered how he had lived before. Did he have someone like 
Grandma, too? She longed to ask, but she did not quite dare.

"There you are!" Aunt Elizabeth swooped down upon them. "That was great luck, 
Nan. Mrs. Ames is driving Martha to school tomorrow and will stop by for you. I 
really didn't want you to go off alone the first day. It will be such a change 
from Elmsport to the Wickcoff Grammar School. It's all arranged; they will be by 
for you at eight fifteen. Chris can ride along, too. They'll drop him off at the 
Academy as they have to pass right by there on the way."
Aunt Elizabeth had a cup of coffee, which she now sipped. She made a face. 
"Bitter—" She pushed the cup toward the center of the table. "No one in these 
places seems able to produce a drinkable cup of coffee." If she caught the look 
of dismay on Nan's face, the deepening of the sullen droop of Chris's mouth, she 
refused to accept either as criticism of her own plans for their welfare.



It was not until after supper that Chris was able to get to his room by himself. 
He hesitated by the closet door. Get the inn out now? That was what he wanted. 
Yet the feeling that it was his alone, that he did not want anyone else to know 
about it, kept him from reaching for the suitcase. At last he sat down on the 
side of his bed. Aunt Elizabeth, that girl—they had to go to bed sometime. Then 
he could use his flashlight, get a good look at what he had bought. He squirmed 
unhappily, impatient to get at his find.
Mostly he did not want to think about the Academy tomorrow. Just because Dad had 
gone there, he was now supposed to enjoy it, according to Dad and Aunt 
Elizabeth. But the truth was that he hated the place.
Chris took off his glasses and rubbed his hand across his eyes. Could he help it 
that he was so nearsighted he was not good at sports? Twice he had broken his 
glasses back at Brixton trying to play basketball. He could never see why 
chasing around a ball, any kind or shape of a ball, was so important.
And if a guy liked to read or knew what the teacher was talking about, then he 
was a soppy square or something. Chris rubbed his forehead again. Al Canfield 
had threatened to give him the "business" if he outsmarted Greg Fellows in class 
once more. Simply because Greg was team captain, and Chris had refused to write 
his themes for him.
Chris's round face took on a stubborn cast. He was not going to be their tame 
theme-paper writer, doing just what they said, as Perry Winn did in Chemistry. 
He supposed they would get him for it tomorrow when he did not produce the book 
review for Greg to copy.
Kids were like the animals at the old zoo. They were all in cages. Maybe you 
couldn't see the cages really, but they were there. He had always thought that 
when he was older Dad would see that he didn't have to be caged up. Chris 
pounded one fist on the bed.
"Chris?" Aunt Elizabeth's voice was right outside the door.
He got up quickly and went to answer.
"There is the special on TV—the one about Africa."
Chris opened the door. "I've got my book review to write," he said shortly.
"Why do you leave your homework until the last minute?" Aunt Elizabeth asked. 
"Well, I suppose I should be glad you do, do it. Margery says she has to keep 
after Tim every minute to get him to turn in anything at all."
But she was studying him more closely than usual, and Chris felt just a little 
guilty at the lie. Only a little guilty, however, not enough to send him to the 
living room to watch TV with the others. He closed the door and stood listening. 
Yes, there was the sound of the TV being turned up. But he'd give them just a 
little more time. He had forgotten all about this show.
When he could be reasonably sure both Aunt Elizabeth and Nan were listening only 
to the show, he burrowed into the closet, drawing out the suitcase. He sat on 
the floor, his back carefully between it and the door, ready to slam the 
suitcase back into hiding should anyone come.
He shook off the old shirt and brought out the inn, carefully cupped in both 
hands. It was even more perfect than he remembered it. He had made many models, 
and quite difficult ones, but this was a work he was sure he could never equal.
A peep show, the man had said. You looked into those tiny windows, and what did 
you see?
Slowly Chris lifted the inn, so that the largest of the diamond-paned windows 
was at eye level and brought the whole of the small house close to his eyes.
But his glasses—those were in the way!
Hastily he swept them off and laid them on the bed. If he held something very 
close without them, he could manage all right. Now, with the window only an inch 
away, Chris strove to see what might indeed lie inside. There was—
Chris lowered the inn and rubbed at his eyes. Queer—it was as if there were a 
thick mist inside. He tried again. No, if there had ever been a way to see the 
interior, it was now gone; as if someone had pasted some whitish material over 
the inside of the window. One after another, he tried all the rest. They were 
all the same. You simply could not see in.
As he moved the inn about, he could hear that rattle. It came, he was sure, from 
a room with a single window, on the first floor. He could not be mistaken—there 
must be something inside.
Warily Chris turned the inn upside down to inspect the smooth piece of wood 
which formed its base. He could not see any nails or screws there. But there 
must be a way to open it somehow, the boy was sure of that. Maybe it was a 
trick—like a Chinese-box puzzle he had once seen. Only he must be very careful 
in trying to solve it; he did not want anything to break.
Longingly he thought of the small tools he used for model building. Dare he try 
to pry off the bottom? No. Maybe if the inn was very old, the wood itself would 
split. He would just have to solve the puzzle some other way.
With regret he returned the model to his suitcase, shoved that back into hiding. 
He began to undress. Aunt Elizabeth didn't approve of reading in bed. But he 
could; at least until the program was over. Chris had discovered long ago that 
if you had a problem and could put it out of mind for a while, then when you 
thought about it once more, sometimes you saw the solution.



Nan watched a big-eared elephant squirting water over its baby. Chris said 
animals ought to be free, as this one in the picture was. She tried to think 
only of what she was seeing and not of tomorrow's trip to school. Chris was 
lucky. He had been here a month, had had time to learn what he had to do, to 
meet the other students. She was starting late in the term and that would mean 
she would have an awful lot to make up. City schools were different from those 
in Elmsport. They must have a lot harder subjects. And she did not know anyone 
at all. She hated going into a new room, having everyone look at her as if she 
were as different as the strange bird now stalking across the TV screen.
She felt rather sick, and she was going to have a headache, she was sure. Not 
that she would try to beg off from going tomorrow. Grandma had always said there 
was no use trying not to face things; that only made them worse. Though Nan 
could see nothing really worse than what was going to face her tomorrow.
She did not eat much of her breakfast on Monday morning, though she did drink 
her orange juice, which was the only thing that tasted good. The toast was too 
dry, in spite of the marmalade she spread thickly over it. Such bites as she 
swallowed rasped her throat. She got down about three spoonfuls of oatmeal, and 
envied Chris a little. He ate with his usual slowness, though Aunt Elizabeth 
told him twice that it was almost eight five and they must not keep Mrs. Ames 
waiting.
He was still at the table when Nan excused herself and went to get her coat and 
cap, being sure she had the envelope with her transfer grades in it. By the time 
she was back in the hall, he stood by the outer door, plainly impatient, bumping 
a book bag against the wall as if he would like to hammer it clear through that 
surface.
Mrs. Ames waved to them from her car as they came out of the lobby. Nan hurried 
forward, not out of eagerness but because she felt she had to get the worst over 
as soon as possible. She saw another girl in the back seat.
"This is Martha, Nan," Mrs. Ames said. "You two can ride in the back. Chris can 
get in the front as he gets out first."
Nan managed a "Hello," and Chris echoed her in his I-don't-care voice. He 
ignored the girl. Nan glanced at Martha, who eyed her in a way which made Nan 
feel that either her hair was dreadfully untidy or else she had spots on her 
face.
Mrs. Ames said nothing more. It was plain she was concentrating on making her 
way through the early-morning traffic, a rush of cars which made Nan wonder how 
anyone dared try to edge into lines such as these.
Nan wanted to break the silence at first, needing desperately to have some small 
token of acceptance from this stranger. Then pride came to her rescue, and she 
sat looking straight at the back of Chris's tousled head. All right, if this 
Martha did not want to talk, she could be quiet, too.
"What grade are you in?"
When abruptly Martha did ask her that, Nan was startled. "I'm in the sixth—I was 
in the sixth," she corrected herself.
Who knew where she would end in the new school, especially coming in at the 
middle of the term?
"Then they'll probably put you in the Crab's room." Martha sounded smug. "I'm in 
Miss Hill's. But we're full—they can't get anyone else in." Her voice held a 
note of pleasure as if she were only too glad to impart this daunting bit of 
information.
"Who is the Crab?" Nan asked, refusing to be put down.
"Miss Crabbit. She's as old as the hills and twice as hard—that's what my friend 
Ruth says. She really piles on the work. Ruth got her mother to transfer her out 
of that class in a hurry when school began."
When Nan made no reply, Martha continued, "She won't like you coming in in the 
middle of the term either. If you can't keep up, she'll put you back at grading 
time. She did that last year to a couple of the kids."
The car pulled to a stop, and Chris got out in front of a tall brown building, 
which was set back from the street a little, with an iron fence between it and 
the sidewalk. He looked around at Mrs. Ames, still ignoring Nan. "Thanks for the 
lift."
But, Nan thought, he did not sound as if he were thankful at all. She watched 
him, turning her head as the car moved out into traffic again. He was walking 
with his shoulders a little hunched, almost as if he hated what lay ahead of 
him.
She had envied Chris. Now she began to wonder if he liked the Academy. He looked 
so—so as if he expected something unpleasant. There were boys in the yard, but 
Chris did not look at or speak to any of them, not as long as she could watch.
"He's your brother now, isn't he?" Martha demanded.
"No!" Nan was quick to deny any relationship with Chris.
"Your stepbrother then, or something like that. Didn't your mother marry his 
father?"
"Yes," Nan answered shortly. She was not going to discuss that with any 
stranger.
"Must be funny, having a stepbrother all of a sudden. Why doesn't he go to 
school with you?"
At least Nan knew the answer to that. "Because his father went to the Academy, 
and he wants Chris to go there as long as he came to live here now."
"Are you all going to live here? I thought you were living with your aunt—"
"Chris's aunt," Nan corrected. "I don't know if we're going to live here or not. 
Mother has to travel—for her writing. She's in Mexico now."
"Is she going to keep on traveling, even if she's married?"
"Martha!" Mrs. Ames did not turn her head, but there was a sharpness in her 
voice which made Martha redden. She looked away from Nan, stared out the window 
on her side of the car. Nan guessed that this was not going to make Martha like 
her any better. Luckily they pulled in to the school parking lot a moment later, 
and Mrs. Ames got out to go in, with Nan reluctantly following her. The girl 
kept her eyes fixed on Mrs. Ames's blue-coated back and refused to look about 
her.



It was almost four when Nan trailed into the apartment-house lobby to face her 
bugbear the elevator. She felt as if she had been chased all day. Just like a 
fox in one of those hunting scenes. Her head ached fiercely, and she was doubly 
hungry, mostly because she had not been able to eat any more at lunch in the 
cafeteria than she had at breakfast. If only she were headed for the big kitchen 
at home where Grandma always had waiting a plate of cookies, or bread spread 
with brown sugar and butter, and a glass of milk.
Nan hesitated before entering the elevator. To get in there all by 
herself—feeling so shut in—she just could not do it.
"Got yourself some trouble, miss?"
She looked up at Haines and for a moment lost all pride, blurting out the truth. 
"I don't like getting in there. What if it gets stuck?"
"It won't. Look here." He went in, and she had to follow if she were going to 
see what he meant. "See this button?" He pointed to a red one. "That's what you 
have to remember. If you have any trouble, just you push that one. But it's been 
going five years, this elevator has, and it never got stuck yet."
As reassuring as that might be, Nan was tense until the lights flashed their way 
from left to right on the number panel, and the door opened on the right 
hallway. As she pressed the doorbell, Clara answered it.
"Come in, child. Miss Hawes, she's been waiting. Your empty suitcases now—they 
has to go down into storage. Seeing as how Chris ain't come home yet, you get 
his, too, and bring 'em out in the hall. Make it quick; I've got to leave early 
tonight."
Nan went and got her two suitcases and lined them up. She did not want to go 
into Chris's room, but Clara had said she must. His suitcase was way at the back 
of the closet. As she pulled it out, something bumped around inside. Chris had 
left something in there. She'd better take it out. Because after anything went 
down to the storage places in the basement, it was hard to get it out again. 
Aunt Elizabeth had already warned her about that.
She snapped open the case. Just an old dirty shirt—No, that was wrapped around 
something. The shirt dropped from her hand, and Nan looked at—Was it a 
dollhouse? It could not be—it was too small. There was something strange about 
the model. She felt as if it were a real building, and she was looking at it 
through the wrong end of a pair of field glasses, such as Mr. Placer, back home, 
used for bird watching.
She had lifted it from the suitcase, knowing that Clara wanted her to hurry, 
when the door flew open and Chris stood there. The eyes behind his glasses were 
not half-shut now, but rather open and blazing with fury.
"You snoop!" He seemed to come at Nan in one leap, his hands out. His fury was 
so frightening that Nan stumbled back against the bed. Her hand struck against 
the post, and the little house fell, to hit hard against the floor.
"I—I didn't snoop!" Nan found her voice as Chris dropped on his knees, reaching 
for the house. "Clara told me to get your suitcase—to take down to storage. I'm 
not a snoop, Chris Fitton, so there!"
Anger gave her power to push past him. He did not even look up. Instead he held 
the model house in one hand, while he picked something else up off the floor. 
Nan could see now that the bottom of the small building had swung open like an 
upside-down lid.
"Is it broken?" she asked unhappily.
"No." Chris seemed to have forgotten his anger. "It just opened." So this is 
what was hidden inside.
Nan came back to peer over his shoulder at a tiny oblong lying on the palm of 
his hand.
"What is it?"
"A sign, the inn sign!" 
He sounded so excited that Nan felt she dared ask another question. "Is that an 
inn then?"
"Of course," he replied impatiently. He was holding the very small slip of the 
wood close to his eyes. "A red deer. No, I remember, in England they call male 
deer harts—this is a red hart. And I can fix it back right over the door where 
it belongs."
"Nan"—Aunt Elizabeth sounded impatient—"where's the other suitcase?"
Chris pushed his suitcase across the floor with a hard shove. "Go on," he 
ordered, "take it out to her!"
Nan reluctantly turned and went. So that must be what Chris had bought in the 
store. But why was he so excited? What was there so special about this Red Hart 
Inn?



The King's Hunters
Chris lay with his head turned on his pillow so that if he could see through the 
dark, the inn would be visible. He had spent a good hour this evening fixing 
that tiny sign, so now it swung from a twist of wire over the main door, jutting 
out the way it would have done if the Red Hart were a real inn. Once he had set 
the model on the table, after the fall to the floor had somehow opened the 
bottom and released the sign, that slab of wood at the bottom was as firmly 
fixed as ever.
"The Red Hart," he whispered. Had there once been a real Red Hart? Most of the 
models he had made were copies of famous ships or planes which did exist or had 
once existed. So he was sure that there had been a Red Hart.
Why had anyone wanted to make a model of it? And why had the sign which 
identified it been hidden inside? Why, why? Chris could list a whole column of 
whys.
All at once he was sleepy, too sleepy to find a new hiding place for the inn. 
Why he did not want anyone to see it, he could not explain. She had—snooping 
around! Maybe Clara had told her to get his suitcase; he supposed that Clara 
must have. But—Chris scowled into the dark. She had no right—no right to know 
about the Red Hart, no right at all. His last thought, trailing across the 
borders of sleep, was resentment.
Chris was aware first of the cold. He squirmed, trying to find warmth, putting 
his hand out to draw the covers up closer. But what his fingers caught was not 
the satin-bound edge of the thermal blanket but rather some stiffer and coarser 
material.
He opened his eyes. The room was no longer dark. There was a dull red glow at 
floor level against the far wall. And—he sniffed—smells. Such smells as Aunt 
Elizabeth would never have allowed in her air-freshener-haunted apartment.
Chris sat up, the rough cover falling away from his clothed body. He was not 
wearing pajamas any longer, but clothes. He sniffed smells of cooking, burning 
wood, other things which were very pungent but which he could not identify. Then 
he knew without question that here was the tang of horse, of people who did not 
bathe too often, of—
His eyes adjusted to the faint radiance of that spot of red. He had been 
sleeping on the floor, and the fire was nearly out! Master Bowyer would have 
something to say about such carelessness!



That other Chris Fitton faded completely from his mind. He was Chris Fitton all 
right, potboy at the Red Hart, lucky to be that out of the charity of Master 
Bowyer, and not tramping the lanes a-begging his way.
Scuttling quickly to the dying fire, he set about nursing it again into a 
respectable small blaze. Must be near morning; that sense of time which he had 
gained when on the tramp told him it would not be long before Sukie came, 
yawning and complaining down from her garret, to slap around pots and pans.
Chris rubbed his hands together in the warmth of the returning flames. The chill 
still struck at his back. But at least the heat on his face was a blessing. His 
nails were broken and rimmed with black; there were calluses on his palms and 
fingers.
He hunched down in the warmth, grateful for a short time of quiet here.
They had had a late night what with the Master being gone again. Jem, too. Lucky 
no one had come for shelter. Being potboy was hard enough, but Chris distrusted 
strange horses, and to help in the stable was an extra burden he did not want. 
Not that he had any complaints, Chris told himself quickly.
Not many innkeepers would take in a stranger, give him a whole coat to his back, 
and a way to earn his keep. Master Bowyer—to think about him made Chris feel as 
warm inside as the fire did without. He tried to count the days back to when he 
had had no hope at all, before he had tried to hide in the stable at the Red 
Hart and Jem had routed him out. He was far more used to taking blows and kicks 
than he was to such kindness as Master Bowyer had offered him. It seemed very 
far in the past since his father had dropped down a-mowing, his face all drawn 
to one side, and his arm and leg deadlike. Three days had his father lain so 
before he died. Then the squire had turned them out of the cottage—him and Bess. 
Not a penny did they have between them.
Bess, she went to Mistress Fellows at the mill. At least she got something to 
eat and a roof there. But there was no room for Chris. So he told her he was off 
to make his own fortune. Fortune? Rather a chance to starve in some wet ditch! 
Until he came to the Red Hart.
Chris wished he had some way to let Bess know, and to learn how she was faring. 
But he had come a long way, or so it seemed to him during those miserable days 
of tramping. The only luck he had was being so small he could hide, so that no 
constable took him up as a vagabond to be whipped or set in the stocks before 
being sent on his way.
"Plaguey cold!"
That was Jem come through the door from the cobbled courtyard. He was blowing on 
his red hands and stamping his feet just like one of the stalled horses. Now the 
ostler jerked off the woolen cap he wore, so lank locks of hair fell to the 
folds of a worn cloak about his shoulders. Chris moved quickly to one side to 
make room for him as he squatted down on his heels to warm himself in the full 
force of the fire. He brought with him the strong smell of horse, mixed with an 
under one of dog.
"Where's that slut, Sukie?" Jem demanded and coughed heavily. "She'd keep her 
bed round the clock if she could."
"I'm here, gallows-meat. You'd best speak well of your betters," Sukie flounced 
into the kitchen. Her overskirt was tied up in front above a full petticoat, 
spotted here and there with evidence of her labors at spit and boiling pot, in 
spite of the long apron she had tied around her near shapeless waist. Her hair, 
turned up under a cap, straggled down about her neck in the back. She had a face 
the color of the dough she punched and pummeled when she was fashioning a pie, 
her nose a button, her eyes, under scanty brows, seeming near without lashes, a 
washed blue in color.
"Put light to the candle, you—" She turned on Chris. "Do you think I can do 
aught in the dark?"
Reluctantly he left the fire just as Sukie kicked at the tangle of blanket on 
the floor where he had lain. "Get this out of the way. Hell's own breath, you 
think to trip me, you lack-wit!"
Jem laughed. "In a fine temper this morning, lass? And what made you so? Did you 
dream ill—"
Chris, hurrying to fold the blanket, caught that glance Sukie shot at the 
ostler. Her full cheeks reddened as she snatched down a flitch of bacon and set 
to sawing at it with a long knife.
"Laugh will you!" She dealt fiercely with the bacon. " 'Tis deaf-eared and 
lack-witted you are, Jem. Dreams, they do tell one things—true things. If I 
dream ill, there be a good reason to watch ahead."
"And you dreamed ill?" he asked.
She had her back to him and did not look around, but she hunched her shoulders 
as if to set a barrier between them.
"Dreams be chancy things," Jem added after a moment of silence. "Best not depend 
upon 'em, lass."
Sukie snorted and kept on with her preparations for breakfast. Master Bowyer was 
not like some innkeepers who had one table for his guests, another for those who 
served. Chris's mouth watered. In due time he would have a good fistful of bread 
with a sizzling bit of bacon in its folds, a slab of cheese, and a measure of 
ale with no grudging.
"This be baking day." She ignored Jem, speaking to Chris as he lighted the thick 
tallow candle in its stand, bringing it to the table. "You'll get ready the wood 
for that."
He nodded. The oven was outside, next to the wall of the scullery which he knew 
very well indeed, that being where he sloshed Sukie's various pans in sand and 
water until she declared them clean. Untidy as she might be in person, Sukie was 
remarkably careful of her tools of trade and not one to use last night's grease 
in a pot to flavor this night's supper.
"We'll have us company today—"
Jem had been almost to the door. Now he swung around quickly. "It's an ill day 
for travelin'. There's the smell of snow in the air," he stated flatly.
Sukie shrugged. "There be them as no snow can stop."
Chris was caught by her tone; it was almost as if Sukie were uttering a warning. 
They got a goodly amount of trade that was certain, being as they were on the 
road out of Rye. And the Red Hart was no bush hole with only tramping people to 
deal with. Gentry stayed here more often than not. The tale was, as Sukie had 
many times told Chris, that in the old days once, a King himself had sheltered 
within these walls. Of course, that had been in the days of the Old Faith when 
the Abbey monks had run part of the Red Hart as a guesting house.
Master Plumm—he who had bought the place back in King Henry's day, after the 
monks had all been turned out—he had kept the guesting house and added to it. 
Thought to set himself up as a squire or the like, had Master Plumm. But he had 
died with the flux, leaving no heir to follow him. So, in time, it had become an 
inn.
But Chris, sometimes pressed into aiding with the waiting in the private rooms, 
marveled at the fine paneling on the walls, the great carved staircase up which 
Master Bowyer would show the gentry with a dignity as complete as if he were a 
squire and this a manor.
Jem came back to face Sukie across the big table where her hands were busy with 
familiar tasks. "What have you heard then, woman!"
She faced him eye to eye, for Sukie was tall for a woman and Jem had the small, 
rather wizened body Chris had somehow come to think of as proper for a 
stableman.
"The King's Men—them as are called Pursuivants—have been nosin' about over to 
Hockenly. 'Twas the peddler as brought the word when he were a-hunting me out a 
reel of thread yesterday. Happen, they'll come ridin' hereabouts, too. There's 
a-plenty as follows the Old Faith still, mum-jawed as they be about it."
Jem rubbed his chin with his hand. A three-day grayish stubble sprouted there. 
Jem shaved only of a Saturday as Chris well knew, he doing the fetching of the 
hot water for that task.
"Hockenly is it? But the Pursuivants have nothing against the squire. He does 
his churching by the King's law and always has. There's no likely fish for them 
to be a-nettin' here."
"The peddler would have it they're nosin' out a massing priest," Sukie returned.
Jem laughed. "Not here! What would bring one o' them to us? The squire's no 
friend to any Papist. They'd do better castin' south. Instow has them what has 
been fined these twenty years for following old ways!"
"You tell 'em that—when they come then," Sukie retorted. "They'd be right glad 
to have your word on it, Jem Truck. You being so big a man an' all."
Jem laughed again, but Chris noticed that when he once more turned to go he was 
frowning. Though what the King's Pursuivants tracking down Papist priests, those 
known traitors to the country, might mean to Jem, Chris could not understand.
He thought about such hunts as he pulled his sacking cloak tighter about his 
shoulders and went into the yard to see when Sukie's oven wood would be ready. 
Poor people did not much trouble their minds with the rights of the matter. 
First, there had been King Hal who wished himself free of a wife and so said 
that the church was his. Then later came that daughter of his—Mary—who was as 
firm in saying that the church was the Pope's, and had men burned to prove it.
After her, Queen Bess. And she the Papists made their plots against, saying she 
had no right to the throne at all. So then it became law that to be a priest was 
to be a traitor. Men were killed by that law if they were taken. Now King Jamie, 
he held by that same law. So his men hunted priests and those who would shelter 
them. Chris shook his head. What did it matter to him? He was thankful for a 
full belly and a place before a fire at night.



Nan sat in a rocking coach, which blundered clumsily along the muddy lanes. She 
no longer watched her uncle. For she felt too nauseated with the lurching to do 
more than hope that they would stop—somewhere—anywhere—before she disgraced 
herself by being violently sick. Uncle Jasper was not one to excuse such 
weaknesses.

They had risen before daylight, Nan still more than half asleep when her uncle 
bundled her in. Now there was a gray day outside the coach windows, though 
nothing else showed but a tangle of tall growing hedge walling in the rough lane 
on either side. She shivered; day was no warmer than night. Though the bed she 
had slept in had been curtained against drafts and there was a warming of 
blankets there about her.
Jasper Knype was a King's Man. He could order people about and be obeyed. Nan 
saw him now peering through the window of the coach as if trying to pick up some 
landmark among the matted brush. Above a point of dark beard, his lips were set 
so tightly it was as if he must seal into himself some knowledge never to be 
told. His nose was large and sharp at the tip, his eyes never still, ever 
flitting from side to side as if he was in search of other people's secrets 
while locked upon his own.
It was his duty to the King, he said, this searching out of traitors. Nan 
huddled closer in her cloak of dull gray. She was now a part of what he did, 
even as was Sam Dykes, who drove this coach, and Henry Mockell, who rode beside 
him, and the three troopers who urged their heavy-footed horses behind, trying 
to escape the splattering of the near-frozen mud the big wheels tossed back at 
them.
She had been schooled in her duties. Uncle Jasper was not one to spare the whip 
when it came to making clear his will. She must do again just what she had done 
before, three, four times—Now she closed her eyes and thought only that she 
dared not be sick.
Uncle Jasper prayed when he wanted something. Nan had no wish to ask Uncle 
Jasper's fearsome God for anything. She was a miserable sinner, that she knew, 
and Uncle Jasper's God hated sinners. It was very hard to remember what life had 
been like before Uncle Jasper claimed her. There had been Rose and Ann and 
Mistress Nevison, peace and quiet and no beatings—no soft quiet voice that went 
on and on until she could do nothing but what that voice said for her to do. She 
was Uncle Jasper's blood kin, and that meant that he alone had the right to her. 
She swiftly learned there was no appeal from his will.
"We are near there, girl."
Nan jerked at the sound of his words, as she might have if he had laid a birch 
rod across her thin shoulders.
"This is a cunning rogue, and only wit will catch him, the foul traitor!"
Sometimes Nan was not sure whether Uncle Jasper was talking to her or just 
speaking his own thoughts aloud. But she knew better than to avoid listening. In 
the past he had caught her sunk in her own misery too much to attend to what he 
said and she had suffered for that.
"You know what to do, girl. Listen and watch. No one heeds such a creep mouse as 
you. We shall tell the same tale as at Penedon Manor. I must take you to your 
aunt and so am burdened with you, even when on the King's business. Is it all 
firm in your head?"
"Yes—yes, sir." She tried to answer promptly enough so he would not say she was 
sullen and needed another lesson to stir up her slow wits.
"Well enough. You were the right key to open doors at the manor. See that you do 
as well here!"
"Yes, sir." She did not want to think of Penedon Manor, of how they had looked 
at her afterward. She had watched and listened. Because she had obeyed her 
orders, and no one took threat from a young girl, Uncle Jasper had caught a 
man—a man who might die—and two other men to lie in prison. She could not tell 
the right of it. Uncle Jasper said these priests were all from the Devil's own 
company and that they would send those who listened to them straight into the 
fiery pit of Hell. Nan was never sure of anything any more, save that she feared 
Uncle Jasper as much as she did the Devil of whom he was so fond of speaking.
The coach slowed, turned in under the arch of a building, jolted to a stop in 
the cobbled yard of an inn. Henry Mockell swung down and came to open the door, 
let down the steps. Her uncle lifted her without ceremony from the corner where 
she had wedged herself and passed her to Henry, who set her on her unsteady feet 
facing an open door where a tall man stood watching them.
Nan heard her uncle's voice and the man's, but she was too numb with the cold 
and her own misery to really listen. It was not until after the tall man had 
picked her up and brought her within to a small paneled parlor, where there was 
a fire to warm the air, that she paid full attention.
"This is cruel weather for a little maid to be upon the roads."
She gazed into his face. Those words had been spoken as softly as her uncle 
might have said them. But his tone was somehow as warm as the fire before her, 
and his face was open and kindly. He wore no beard, and his cheeks were brown as 
if he were often out under the sun. The hair, which crept back from his high 
head in a way which left a graying peak pointed between his dark eyes, 
lengthened to the level of his plain linen collar; his coat was of a dark 
russet; his breeches of leather; and there were thick knitted stockings above 
his square-toed shoes.
He smiled. "I am Peter Bowyer who keeps this inn."
Nan flinched. "I am Nan Mallory, if it please you, sir." He was dressed with the 
plainness of a countryman, and yet she felt that there was about him the manner 
of a squire.
"It pleases me very well, Mistress Mallory. Now bide you here where it is warm, 
and one shall bring you a hot posset to drink and an apple tart. Sukie has taken 
a batch straight from the oven. You shall find them very good indeed."
He nodded as if they were already old friends, leaving with a quick step as if 
there was much to see to. Nan fumbled with the throat ties that held her hooded 
cloak. She did not know where Uncle Jasper was, and for the moment she did not 
care. But she could not help looking about her now with the eyes Uncle Jasper 
had trained to serve him.
The room was small, and the walls paneled throughout. Even the door, when it was 
closed, was covered by panels, so that it could hardly be told from the rest of 
the wall. There was a large fireplace, though the fire did not fill it, and the 
stone mantel was carved with a tracing of vine and flat roses.
But there was little furniture—a table pushed against the far wall with a 
candlestick on it, the bench Master Bowyer had pulled closer to the fire for her 
to sit on, a couple of stools. It was the walls, however, that would yield any 
secrets.
Those who held by the Old Faith had hiding places in the walls—places where a 
man might stand or lie when the King's Men hunted them. Those places were 
secret, but such secrets could be discovered. And Uncle Jasper had taught her 
how one worked toward such discoveries. Nan uttered a small sound which was near 
a whimper. She would have to look—soon.



Chris watched the men tramp into the kitchen. Sukie did not look up from the 
table where she was setting out the loaves, hot and smelling so good, which she 
had just brought in from the oven. Twice her fingers jerked, and she nearly 
tumbled a round of fresh bread onto the sanded floor. Yet she did not glance at 
the men, and her lower lip was caught between her teeth. Chris felt her fear, 
though he could not understand it. Surely they had nothing to fear here, they 
were not sheltering any enemy of the King. Let this officer and his men clatter 
through the Red Hart from attic to cellar and leave with empty hands.
He could not understand what story had brought them here at all. This was a 
quiet village, strung out along the Rye road, the cottages fronting each other 
across the highway, the church at one end and the Red Hart at the other. 
Everyone knew that Squire Kenton, up at the Manor, was no lover of the Pope. His 
own brother had been killed in Spain by a priest's urging.
Master Bowyer had raised no protest when they had tramped in with their officer, 
that sour-faced man now standing in the doorway, his never-still eyes darting 
about the room as if he expected the Pope himself to rise up from behind the 
dresser with its heavy burden of pewterware. To think of this being a traitor's 
hiding hole was so foolish a thing that Chris had stared open-mouthed when he 
understood they were serious about this search.
Sukie took up a small tray and loaded on it one of the steaming apple tarts, a 
small tankard of ale, and a spoon. She snapped her fingers to Chris as if she 
dared not speak aloud. When he came to her, she moved the light burden toward 
him.
"The parlor—"
"What's to do, slut?" The officer gave Chris a look hard enough to make him drop 
his eyes. He had seen such before when he had been afraid of being dragged 
before some parish constable for a homeless rogue.
"Master—he says it be for the maid." Sukie flashed a scowl at the officer. 
"Master has a kind heart; more than some—"
For a moment the man looked as if he were not going to allow Chris to pass, his 
gaze straight on the boy as he pulled at the point of his small beard. Then he 
motioned him on.
"Take it then, fellow."
Chris was glad to be out of the kitchen. Though there had been unusual activity 
there to watch—such as one of the men briskly measuring the length of the 
fireplace on a marked stick and another prodding along the stones. As he passed 
the small chamber where Master Bowyer kept his accounts, he saw another of the 
King's Men lounging by the half-open door and caught a glimpse of russet sleeve. 
Master Bowyer must be within, and they had a guard on the door! Chris longed to 
trip the fellow as he went, but there was no need, he knew, for such tactics. 
They would discover soon enough that this was a fruitless hunt and be gone about 
their business. He saw the guard watching him, but as Chris put hand to the 
latch of the small parlor door, the man relaxed.
Chris entered. Maid, Sukie had said. But did the King's Men bring with them 
women when they hunted? Or was she some prisoner or witness they kept in guard? 
Yet there was no man before this door—
"Oh!"
Here was only a girl! No bigger than Bess the last time Chris had seen her. She 
stood by the table, staring at him as if he had frightened her. Her dress was 
creased and crumpled. She might have been traveling for several days, and it was 
dingy dark gray, its cuffs and collar of linen grimy.
While she was not only plain but near ugly. Her hair was strained back tight 
under her cap. What little of it showed was a sandy red, as were her brows and 
her scanty eyelashes. There were thick freckles across her nose and cheeks. Why, 
Bess had been far prettier. This girl looked as if she were afraid of her own 
shadow.
"Something to eat, mistress." Chris set down the tray.
"Thank—thank you." Even her voice was like the shadow of a real one. "It is—it 
is kind of Master Bowyer—"
Chris swung around, taking a step closer to her. "What do you know of Master 
Bowyer?" he demanded fiercely.
She shrank a little. "Naught. He—he was kind to me. He said someone would bring 
me food—"
"What are you doing here?" Chris was oddly heartened by her obvious signs of 
fear. "Why did you come to trouble Master Bowyer?"
The girl shook her head. "I—I came because Uncle brought me. He—I must go to my 
aunt; it is in this direction. So I travel with my uncle."
Chris snorted. "You know what he is, this uncle of yours? He takes men to kill 
them. But why does he come here? Master Bowyer is no priest lover! So who sent 
him to seek what he is never going to find?"
Nan kept shaking her head. "I—I do not know. He tells me nothing."
She looked at the boy who faced her with only the short space of the table's 
edge between them. He looked very rough—frightening—in spite of the apron belted 
about him and his rolled-up sleeves. Who was he? Some inn servant? But why was 
he asking her all these questions? This was the first time Uncle Jasper's story 
had been suspect. She was sure that the kind-faced innkeeper had believed it, 
that she was merely in Uncle Jasper's company because it was necessary that she 
travel a short distance in his charge. She swallowed. She must do as she had 
elsewhere, begin to ask questions of her own. But always before she had dealt 
with serving maids who had felt sorry for her and were willing to believe the 
part she played. In the weeks she had been with Uncle Jasper, she had never met 
face to face one who was angry and suspicious from their first meeting. Nan made 
a great effort to summon courage.
"Who are you?" Her voice came out firmly enough to give her more confidence. 
"Master Bowyer's son?"
He shook his head. "I'm the potboy." He made that answer short and did not say 
his name. But then he added, "Master Bowyer is not married; he has no family." 
Now he came a step closer, watching her so intently that she wanted to retreat 
again. "Who lied about him?"
"I do not know—" she began. 
Then he interrupted her hotly, "It is your uncle who has come a-hunting here. 
Who said that the Red Hart shelters Papists?"
Nan could only stare. "He—my uncle—tells me nothing. I do not know why he has 
come here." That was a lie, one of the many which always lay heavy on her mind. 
Uncle Jasper said that such were not lies when they were told in the good cause, 
yet Nan hated to speak them.
She wondered if this potboy guessed she lied, he continued to stare at her so 
fiercely. What lay between him and his master that he was so ready in Master 
Bowyer's defense? If they were not kin, and he had said so—
"The master, he is a good man!" He paused as if to dare her to deny that. "He 
should not be troubled thus."
Abruptly he swung around and left, shutting the door behind him with a decided 
bang. Nan stood shivering where she was. The good cinnamony smell of the tart on 
the table only made her stomach feel the worse. Yet she must force herself to 
choke down at least part of it, so there be no suspicion roused that she was not 
what Uncle Jasper had said she was—a young maid innocent of all his work, on her 
way to her aunt.
She reached for the tankard and sipped at the mulled ale. The brew was warm, 
spicy. For the first time she felt warmth within her. Taking the horn-handled 
spoon, she broke through the flaky crust of the tart. But she ate with no 
pleasure, only the need for playing her role here. Let it be done and 
quickly—Oh, let it be done quickly, so they could be away!
All the time she gulped both ale and food, her eyes sought the wall panels. She 
knew well what had brought Uncle Jasper here: his belief that Master Bowyer 
himself was other than he seemed—one of the traitor priests perhaps—and that the 
Red Hart had a secret which served those who came and went within its walls.
There were those who in the days of Queen Elizabeth had gone from place to place 
fashioning hiding places for priests, cunningly concealed, but some large enough 
to hold a man in safety; others to hide only those things that each priest must 
carry if he was to serve the false services he held. If Master Bowyer was 
himself a priest, as Uncle Jasper believed, then what she must seek was not a 
hiding place for a person, but rather one for the vessels of the Mass.
Nan could eat no more. The shadows which lay in the corners of this small parlor 
were drawing in upon her as if determined to push her out. The girl squeezed her 
hands to her breast and stared wildly around. It was there somewhere—what she 
sought, what she must find. She knew that as much as if some voice shouted to 
her out of the very air.
It had been this way before—twice. Something had sent her directly to a place of 
secrets. She was afraid, bitterly afraid, of that queer knowledge that slipped 
slyly into her mind, sent her in the right direction. At least that was one 
secret she had managed to keep hidden from Uncle Jasper. It was—like witchcraft, 
this being able to find the hidden. And witches were even more of the Devil than 
priests. If Uncle Jasper knew—Nan shivered and gave a small moan, the sound of 
which frightened her even more.
Let her just be able to find what she had to, so that they could go from this 
place! Let her do it quickly—quickly—!
She closed her eyes and waited, allowing that knowledge to come, not fighting 
it, in spite of all her hatred of what would possess her. Then, staring straight 
before her, though she did not really see the room, she went, her fingertips 
sliding across the panels. It was when she approached the fireplace, on the far 
side, that she found it. Here—somewhere—
Up and down the panel her fingers went. She had found it. She might not be able 
to open it, but Uncle Jasper would see to that. Sighing, she wavered back to the 
bench where her cloak trailed down to the floor.
The fire could not warm her now. As always when that—that knowing came to her—it 
left her weak and sick—and cold, as if life had been drawn from her. Now she 
must work to find an explanation to give Uncle Jasper, one which would fit her 
learning where the secret lay hid so he could never guess how she had discovered 
it. This time she could not say she had overheard any whispers of man or maid. 
There was the boy—But she did not believe that Master Bowyer would entrust a 
potboy with knowledge that might mean his own death. No, this time she was 
caught without any way of crediting her discovery to something Uncle Jasper 
would believe.
Nan drew the cloak up about her body. To keep silent would be no way out. She 
did not trust her own courage; she had none where Uncle Jasper was concerned. He 
had broken her will in the first days after he had taken her, so she was his 
servant and could keep nothing from him, except the greatest secret of all—how 
she was able to learn such matters.
She began to cry, hopelessly, silently, the tears running down her cheeks, she 
making no attempt to rub them away. Always she had feared that this would 
happen—some day.



Chris slipped down the hall. The King's Man had called Master Bowyer into one of 
the upper rooms for questioning. He could hear the rumble of men's voices from 
above the stairway where the searchers tramped from room to room.
Jem was in the kitchen with Sukie and Bet, one of the maids.
They were under the eye of one of the guards now. But Chris had been in the yard 
when they were rounding them up. And he knew one of the tricks of this place, 
the door from the stables into the main hall, a door which could be easily 
overlooked. Sometimes at night Master Bowyer came and went by that door, and 
Chris had seen him, saying nothing. For Master Bowyer's business was his own, 
and no man knowing him could think he went so to do evil. But for these 
searchers to think the innkeeper a priest! Who had told such a wild tale?
Chris paused by the door of the small parlor. That girl, she said she knew 
nothing, but he did not believe her. She had been frightened half out of her 
wits. He was sure he could get more out of her, given the chance. Swiftly he 
opened the door and whipped around it, shutting it silently behind him.
There was little light here. The inner curtains had been drawn to keep out 
frosty drafts as well as the daylight. He looked for her first on the bench or 
by the table—she was gone.
Then a faint scratching drew his attention to the far side of the fireplace. She 
was standing before the wall, feeling along the edge of one of the panels. Chris 
moved forward, and his thick shoes scraped on the sanded floor. The girl gave a 
little cry as she faced about.
"What do you?"
Nan gasped; then she straightened. She saw the scowling face, the fingers balled 
into fists as if this potboy would willingly pummel her to get his answer. All 
at once a new idea came to her, so strange a one that she wondered why it should 
visit her here and now. What if she could find the secret place for Uncle 
Jasper, but find it empty? If she did not see anything in it, then she could 
truthfully say that it was as she had located it!
"Listen"—she leaned forward—"what my uncle and his men seek—lies behind here." 
She tapped the surface of the panel. "If they find it… your master will be 
taken, do you understand?"
"You won't tell them." He advanced upon her.
"I must tell—about the hiding place. But if it is empty—What then?"
For a moment she thought her words had made no impression on him. Was he too 
thick-witted to understand? Then he turned that straight stare from her face to 
the wall.
"Can you open it?"
Nan gave a sigh of relief, so she had touched him that far.
"I hope that I may." Now she dared set her back to him, call upon that power she 
did not understand to serve her. Up and down she ran her fingertips, trying to 
hold within her control her fear and impatience.
It was as if she touched some spot which was faintly warm. Then another slightly 
below it. She pressed on these together, and there was movement in the wall.
Straightway she drew back, refusing to look at what she had uncovered. Only so 
could she tell the truth, and Uncle Jasper could read it so with his skill at 
winning confessions from the weak.
"I must not look at it," she said hurriedly. "If I do—then he will get that from 
me. He can always tell if I try to lie. Do you take what is there into safety! 
But—leave the panel a little open!"
Nan pushed past him, her breath coming in gasps, her head turned away. She heard 
his movements before she caught up her cloak and hurried out.
Chris looked within the hiding place. There was a bag lying there, and he knew 
it for the one which Master Bowyer carried on those night travels of his. Chris 
did not understand all the girl had said, but he was well aware that his master 
was menaced by what lay here. He pulled the bag from the hidden cupboard and 
pushed the panel near to.
Where could he set it for safety—? The oven! The oven still hot enough to roast 
the joint which Sukie had put in when she took forth the bread! Grasping the bag 
tight, Chris slipped from the room. The girl was going upstairs toward the 
murmur of voices. He did not know if she were on her way to betray him or not. 
But he was still free. Down the hall he darted, slipping through to the stable. 
There was the coach with a man on guard at the door of the courtyard, but his 
head was luckily turned away. Chris scuttled past the scullery to open the door 
of the oven. The odor of roasting meat, the heat struck him in the face. He 
tossed the bag, to hear it clink against the back wall, behind the joint. Maybe 
not good enough, but the best he could do—
"What are you doing there!" Chris stiffened.
A hand closed tight on his shoulder. He summoned all the courage he had as he 
looked up into the face of the guard.
"Seeing to the meat. They keep Sukie in the kitchen, and she can't get to it. 
This be baking day, see—and the week's joint, Sukie puts it in when the loaves 
come out."
"More like you're thinking of stealing yourself a cut." The guard laughed. "At 
your age no boy has ever a full belly. Be glad you didn't get caught by your 
master."
He clanged the oven door shut with one hand, kept his grip on Chris with the 
other.
"March"—he pushed him toward the door to the kitchen—"get you in with the rest, 
and don't let me catch you sneaking out again."
He thrust Chris inside with a word to the other guard about not taking his eyes 
off the brat. The man grunted sourly and sent Chris across the kitchen with an 
open-handed slap that made his head ring.
The boy crouched on the floor by the hearth. What if the guard mentioned the 
oven and that officer with the ever-moving eyes was suspicious? They were not 
safe yet—they could not be. The girl—what if she talked? In spite of the fire 
Chris shivered.
Nan stood in the doorway of the room where Uncle Jasper sat on a chair, watching 
his men sound out paneling, toss covers from a bed so they could prod beneath 
it. He seemed to sense her coming and turned at once.
"There is a queer thing." She brought out the words shrilly, those words she had 
tried to fit together in her mind on her way upstairs.
"Yes, my child?" Uncle Jasper's voice with the deceptive softness spurred her to 
a greater effort.
"In the parlor—there is a piece of the wall sticking out. I pulled at it—"
"Yes!" Uncle Jasper was on his feet at once. "Bring that gallows rogue." He 
motioned toward Master Bowyer. "Now"—he set a hand around Nan's upper arm in a 
grip which hurt, but the pain this time cleared her wits—"now, show me this 
strange wall, girl!"
Back in the parlor, she pointed. The boy had obeyed her order; it could plainly 
be seen that here was a small door. Uncle Jasper loosed his hold on her and took 
an eager stride to pull it fully open. There was only an empty space behind. 
With a cat's swiftness he turned to look at Master Bowyer. But the innkeeper 
showed only a measure of surprise.
"It seems that this house has its secrets about which even I know nothing," he 
said in that calm voice of his.
For a moment Uncle Jasper's hate and suspicion made a frightening mask of his 
face. Then he shrugged. "Let the search continue," he said.
But Nan knew he was sure that this was the right place, that somehow Master 
Bowyer had beaten him. Deep in her for the first time there was a tiny spring of 
hope. Uncle Jasper could be bested. And not by a man like Master Bowyer. She had 
done it—she and that boy!
If a thing might be done once, perhaps it could be done again.
The spirit he had subdued and thought fully broken was coming to life again 
within her thin body. In time she might even find her own way of escape; she 
must sharpen her wits and use every advantage. No one was going to make her free 
except herself.



Chris watched them drive out of the courtyard at sunset. They had ripped and 
hunted, and left the inn in vast disorder behind them. But they had not found 
what they sought. Though Sukie was now a part of it, too. She must have seen the 
bag, or what remained uncharred of it in the oven, when she at last had gone 
under escort to clear out the roast. However, no one under this roof would 
betray the master.
The girl—Chris wondered a little about her. He had seen her again only 
fleetingly as her uncle had bundled her back into the coach. But there had been 
something different about her—It did not matter. She was gone; they were all 
gone.
He held his head high as he went back to the disordered kitchen. Master Bowyer 
had taken him in from despair and maybe even death in the fields. Now he had had 
a chance to repay, and he had done so. He was no longer what he had been in his 
own eyes, but something better.



4
Dream or—?
Nan opened her eyes. Her whole body was stiff and aching. It had been a dream, 
of course! But she had never in her life known a dream so real, a dream in which 
you could smell things, taste things, be hot, cold—and very much afraid. Yes, 
there were dreams which made one afraid. Only that was a different kind of fear, 
somehow. Remembering that other Nan and Uncle Jasper, she shivered.
There came the low buzz of the small alarm clock Grandma had given her last 
Christmas. Time to get up. She looked thankfully around the room. At least she 
was not—there! All she could remember was being put back into that dreadful 
coach.
Nan glanced down at her hands. Somehow she had expected to see those soiled 
linen cuffs about her thin wrists, but only her pajama sleeves showed.
Scrambling out of bed, she grabbed for her dressing gown. Better make it to the 
bathroom before Chris got in there. He was so slow!
Chris—Chris had been a part of her dream, a very important part. He had been at 
the inn, had taken whatever lay in the hiding place—She stumbled down the hall, 
still bemused by the vivid memory. Why had Chris been a part of her dream? In 
the dream he had been a little taller, and his hair had been a lot longer. He 
had not worn glasses either. The boy had been Chris, however, without question.
And the inn—the Red Hart—they had been in the inn! Only how could they have? The 
model was so small you could hold it with one hand. No one could have been in 
that.



Chris flopped over in bed to reach mechanically for his glasses. He always did 
that in the morning, even before he got out of bed. Sitting up, he looked at the 
night table. There was the Red Hart, just as he had seen it before he fell 
asleep.
What a dream!
He touched fingertips to the roof of the miniature building. How could he have 
known all those rooms inside? He wished now that he had paid more attention when 
the hinged bottom was open. Only then all he had cared about was the inn sign. 
That hung safely in place just where he had put it last night.
"Chris!"—Aunt Elizabeth at his door—"Chris, you must get up—"
"I'm up!" He made that statement true by sliding from between the covers. The 
inn firmly grasped in one hand, Chris looked for a proper hiding place. He 
finally decided on the bottom drawer of the desk, placing over the model some 
sheets of paper. He did not think Clara would come looking in there. Nor that 
girl Nan—snooping again—
Chris paused. That girl—she had been a part of it. He breathed a little more 
quickly, recalling how she had opened the hiding place and then gone, leaving 
him to save Master Bowyer. Even though she had looked different in the dream, 
she was really the same. But why was she in his dream, a part of the story of 
his inn? He slammed down his comb, made a face at the glass.
"Chris"—Aunt Elizabeth warning him again.
"I'm hurrying." He gave his usual answer. And he had better hurry; there was no 
use putting off facing up to the usual—breakfast with Aunt Elizabeth timing 
about every mouthful, going off to the Academy. Too bad that the dream was not 
real. He would like to live at the Red Hart just as he had last night. Sure it 
was cold, and the work was hard. But—He sighed and, with his usual deliberation, 
got ready for a day which seemed to him far more difficult to face.



"Miss Crabbit?" Aunt Elizabeth was saying as Chris came to the breakfast table. 
"Why, I remember her. She had a younger sister, Margaret, who was in my 
graduation class at Miss Pierce's. Yes, I am sure—Margaret Crabbit—she teaches 
French at college now. Martha isn't in your class then."
Nan had not looked at Chris since he sat down. She was afraid if she did she 
might blurt out the question at the tip of her tongue—what had he dreamed last 
night? Chris was, however, his usual sullenly silent self, which first relieved 
and then annoyed her.
"Martha's class was full." Nan did not see any reason to explain that to be with 
Miss Crabbit represented a kind of outer darkness as far as Martha was 
concerned. Martha had completely ignored her at lunchtime. Nan had had to 
eat—though she had not eaten much—at a table with complete strangers who talked 
over and around her as if she did not exist at all. Two were girls from Miss 
Crabbit's room who spent most of the time groaning over homework, saying that 
they were going to get their mothers to protest about all the Crab expected them 
to do.
"Well," Aunt Elizabeth said comfortably, "there are other girls to be friendly 
with."
Nan made no answering comment. As far as she was concerned everybody in the 
school was an enemy who eyed her with the same wary dislike Martha had shown. 
She was already secretly counting the days to spring vacation, and that seemed 
far too long away.
"Chris will walk with you as far as the Academy." Aunt Elizabeth made that 
unpleasant suggestion as if it were something decided upon. For the first time 
Nan glanced in the boy's direction.
His eyes were on his plate, and he said nothing at all. But Nan could feel a 
wave of dislike spreading across the table. She might have accepted that, found 
some way to escape—yesterday. Now she lifted her chin a fraction.
So Chris did not want to walk with her. Well and good! What did she care? They 
might start out together, so Aunt Elizabeth would not make matters worse by 
absolutely ordering them to do so; then they could separate. Nan guessed that 
even if this city was a lot larger than Elmsport she could find her way.
"Oh"—Aunt Elizabeth had gone to the window—"snowing again. I'll just call down 
to Haines. He'll get a taxi. There is no use of you both getting colds by 
tramping through this."
For the first time Chris raised his head and looked around. "I'm walking," he 
said calmly. "I've got boots."
He got up and left the room before Aunt Elizabeth could answer. She gave a 
little laugh which did not sound as if she were really amused. "Well, I suppose 
it is different for a boy. I really don't know how to—But you shall take a taxi, 
dear!"
Nan was willing enough to agree. She felt that Chris's solution was the best for 
both of them, but she wished he had not made it first.
Chris pulled on his short coat. His book bag was on the hall chair. Now he drew 
his cap down over his ears, settled his glasses with a firm push of the 
nosepiece. Taxi! All it would need to set off Canfield was for him to reach 
school riding in a taxi with a girl.
He called back a very short good-bye and made it out of the apartment door, 
half-expecting a hail from Aunt Elizabeth. Luckily the elevator came quickly. In 
the lobby he passed Haines who was listening at the phone, probably to Aunt 
Elizabeth ordering the taxi.
The snow was falling thickly, curtains of it driven here and there by the wind. 
Chris snuggled his chin deeper into his turned-up collar. Big storm for so late 
in the year. Chris trudged on. His dream memory nibbled at his mind, but now he 
tried to shut it out. He did not want to think about the Red Hart Inn somehow.



Since the taxi was late, Aunt Elizabeth had to write an excuse. Then Nan had to 
take it to the office at school. By the time she reached her desk in Miss 
Crabbit's room, the impatience of those she had dealt with left her feeling as 
if she had deliberately set out to annoy them in turn.
The day, begun badly, continued worse. As Martha had forewarned, Miss Crabbit 
certainly upheld the nickname which had been given her. Though Nan realized that 
she was not being singled out for any sharpness of tongue, which met her own 
faltering attempts to keep up with the class. Miss Crabbit could "keep 
discipline." She had an exterior and tone of voice which reduced even the boys 
in the back to some semblance of order, but she was impatient with those who did 
not work their best.
Nan, still at sea in a class where many things appeared so different from all 
she had known, was near giving up in despair of ever getting anything right 
again. At lunch she made the round of the cafeteria without paying much 
attention to the food she selected. She had a hamburger and a glass of milk, as 
well as knife, fork, and spoon which she did not need, clattering together on 
her tray when she turned to face what was even worse than the Crab's class—a 
room filled with tables, the smell of food, a roar of voices, and no one to 
welcome her.
She hesitated by a table, then set her tray down where there were two vacant 
seats. The three girls at the other end talked shrilly, as if to top the roar 
about them. Nan, in one quick and guarded glance, recognized them as classmates, 
though it was difficult, even though their faces were familiar, to put names to 
them.
The blonde one with the very long hair and the blue pants suit with the 
red-white-and-blue-striped T-shirt—that was Marve. Even Miss Crabbit called her 
Marve. With her, wearing jeans and a floppy shirt with Cat Woman printed on it, 
was a girl with her hair trimmed as short as a boy's used to be. She had a sharp 
nose—
Nan remembered a nose like that. A ghost of last night's dream troubled her 
mind. Uncle Jasper—he had had just such a nose—though a much larger one, of 
course, and his lips were thin in the same way, too.
The third girl was the Karen Long who sat just in front of Nan in class. She 
always looked oddly—or had the two days Nan had seen her—like a blurred copy of 
Marve. Her stringy hair was darker, a straight brown, hanging in untidy ragged 
locks, instead of being sleek the way Marve's was. She also wore a pair of blue 
pants and a red-white-and-blue shirt, but she was too plump for them to fit as 
well as Marve's.
To Nan's complete surprise Marve got up, slid her tray with a clatter down the 
table, coming to perch on the chair next to Nan, her two friends moving down in 
turn. Marve was smiling.
"You live at the Ramsley, don't you?"
Nan still could not believe the friendliness in Marve's voice was meant for her. 
There was none of that put-you-in-your-place staring with which Martha had 
favored her.
"Just for a while." Somehow she found her voice around a bite of hamburger she 
did not even taste. "I'm staying with Miss Hawes." Not Aunt Elizabeth—because 
she was not—not a real aunt.
"I know. M' mother belongs to the bridge club. She heard all about you."
Nan tensed. Would Marve, for all her appearance of friendliness, now ask 
questions as Martha had?
"M' mother takes Travel Magazine." Marve planted both elbows just beyond the 
edge of her tray. "I saw that piece about Taiwan your mother wrote. It must be 
something to travel around that way. You go with her—when there's vacation?"
Nan shook her head. "I lived with Grandma—until I came here." She wondered if 
Marve would lose interest in her now.
"I bet she brings you things." Marve was watching her oddly. "I bet you've got 
some wonderful presents from all those places."
Nan chewed at her hamburger. She need not tell any real lie now. Mother had 
brought or sent some things. There was a doll from Japan, and a turquoise 
bracelet, and a dress from London. Only the dress had been too small when it 
came, and Nan had never worn it. Not that she cared because she had not liked it 
at all.
"Some," she admitted warily.
"You got them with you?" Marve sounded almost impatient.
"No. When Grandma had to move, we put a lot of things in storage."
For a moment Marve was silent; then she nodded. "I guess you would at that. Too 
bad. The Crab gives extra credit if you can bring in something from abroad to 
show."
Nan half expected Marve to shove off again, but she stayed. Karen and the other 
girl simply watched and said nothing, though the girl with the pointed nose 
smiled. Not quite a nice smile, Nan decided. She felt uneasy as if waiting for 
something, she did not know quite what, to happen. She was very sure that Marve 
had not joined her out of a pure wish to be friendly.
"You know Karen"—Marve pointed—"and this is Pat, Pat Wilcox."
They both bobbed their heads but did not speak.
"We're Three's a Crowd"—she laughed as if inviting Nan to share a joke—"That's 
what the rest call us. You see," she added as if surprised Nan did not 
immediately show understanding, "when we all got slammed in the Crab's room this 
year, we sort of joined forces." Marve tossed her head and smoothed back her 
hair.
"I live on Richmond Street, and Pat two doors down. Karen is around the corner 
at the Bellamy. So we're near you. Your brother doesn't come here, does he?"
"My brother? Oh, you mean Chris. No, he goes to the Academy."
"That's right," Marve nodded, "he's your stepbrother, isn't he? He'd be kind of 
cute if he didn't wear those goggles and look like he always had a stomachache."
Karen tittered, and Pat's smile widened a fraction.
"You're lucky," Marve continued. "The Academy gives a keen dance right after 
Piaster. Most of us haven't a chance of getting an invitation to that."
"I probably haven't either." Nan made certain she was not going to be accepted 
by Three's a Crowd on false pretenses. "I don't think Chris dances. Anyway we 
don't know each other very well."
"That's exciting." Marve leaned a little closer. "Must be smooth to just wake up 
some morning and find you have a big brother and all! Weren't you excited when 
you heard?"
"Some," Nan admitted dryly.
"I'll bet you were." For the first time Pat spoke. But her tone suggested that 
any surprise Nan might have felt was for the worse instead of the better.
Nan, however, could not help but warm a little to Marve in spite of her 
wariness. She already knew that this girl held leadership of the room and to be 
singled out by her might mean complete acceptance. She felt grateful, even if 
she did not care too much for either Pat or Karen.
So when Marve insisted that she join them on the walk home from school, she 
found herself pounding along in the now thick snow. Luckily Aunt Elizabeth had 
not thought to send the taxi which Nan had half expected.
When they parted under the canopy where Haines sheltered, it was with the 
assurance from Marve that they would be by in the morning to pick her up—in 
Marve's father's car.
"He won't mind. One more won't make any difference," she said. "M' mother knows 
your aunt. So I can fix it. You'll see."
Nan felt so much better she did not even dread the elevator as she crossed the 
lobby.



Chris tramped over her wet footprints in the lobby before Lind, the super, could 
get them mopped up. His mind was already racing ahead of his body—to the inn. 
All day he had managed, with a great deal of willpower, not to think about that 
very real dream. But now he relaxed his control and began going over it bit by 
bit in his mind.
If it were only his dream! He resented the fact that Nan had played a part in 
it—an important part. During the day he had had a chance to get into the library 
on the excuse of a project and had tried to find out what he could about the 
Papist priests whom the King's Men hunted down. There were some facts which made 
him shiver, the more so when he remembered Master Bowyer. They killed men they 
said were traitors in a horrible way then.
But at least his dream had not been that bad. Master Bowyer had escaped, because 
that officer could not find any evidence that Bowyer was secretly a priest. 
Chris remembered how his dream self had hidden that evidence. He had had a lot 
of luck, being able to get the bag into the oven that way.
That girl—Nan—he still could not figure out just how she had discovered the 
hiding place in the parlor. It had been plain she was awfully afraid of the man 
who was supposed to be her uncle. She had said she could not lie to him, that he 
would know it. But how had she found that cupboard? Had she been told about it 
and been left to open it? Chris rang the doorbell to the apartment with less 
than half a mind on what he was doing, being far more wrapped in his dream 
adventure.
Clara opened the door. "Get off those boots," she commanded before he was even 
inside. "Your slippers are right over there. And there's cocoa ready in the 
kitchen."
Chris did not in the least want cocoa in the kitchen; he wanted his own room 
with the door shut and a chance to look at the inn. But he had learned not to 
argue with Clara.
Nan was already in the kitchen, a mug of cocoa in her hand, choosing from a 
plate of chocolate-chip cookies.
"These are store ones," she said as Chris sat down.
He grunted, not aware that she had given him a searching glance.
"Do you know," Nan continued, "what tastes wonderful? An apple tart with 
cinnamon and sugar—"
Chris's hand had gone out automatically to pick up a cooky. Now he turned 
swiftly to face her. "You—you were there!"
"Yes."
"But it was a dream. My dream!" he snapped resentfully.
"Mine, too!" She sounded triumphant enough to make him long to slap her.
Then curiosity and the need to know got the better of his flare of temper. "What 
do you remember?" he demanded.

She looked around. Clara was getting ready to go as soon as Aunt Elizabeth 
returned. They were alone. But how long might they be left so? Worrying about 
that, Nan began to retell her night's experiences as fast as she could.



5
Double Dare
"Why?" Chris said flatly when she had finished.
"What?" Nan had begun when he interrupted, "Why did we both dream that? Did it 
really happen—once?"
Though the kitchen was warm and the cocoa she had just swallowed hot, Nan 
shivered. "How could it be?"
"Models," Chris returned as if he were thinking aloud, "are usually copies of 
real buildings, or ships, or whatever. The Red Hart could be a copy of a real 
inn."
Nan stared at him over the rim of her mug. "Even if it is a copy," she ventured, 
"what would make us dream that way? Do you believe it all really did happen—a 
long time ago?" Again she shivered.
"Maybe. I read up about priests at the library today. King Henry the Eighth 
declared the Church of England separate from the rule of the Pope, who lived in 
Rome. He considered all Roman Catholic priests to be traitors because they 
continued to hold Mass in their own way. Your uncle—he was what they called a 
Pursuivant, one of the King's Men. They went around hunting Papist priests and 
the people who helped them. It was a bad time."
"He was not my uncle!" Nan flared. "He—he was just someone in a bad dream. So 
there!"
She set down her mug and would have gotten up from the table, but Chris's hand 
shot out to close fingers about her wrist hard. "How did you find that place in 
the wall?" he demanded.
"I—it was a dream—"
"Maybe it was a dream, but how did you find it? Did your uncle tell you where it 
was?"
Nan settled back, for it was plain Chris was not going to let go until he had an 
answer. "I don't know—it was queer. I could—well, sort of run my hands over the 
wood and feel that it was there. But I couldn't tell Uncle Jasper that." Her 
fear in the dream flared up. "Because he would have said that was Devil's 
knowledge. So—so I had to make up stories about how I found the places—at least, 
I think I did. But"—now she jerked free of Chris's hold—"I don't want to talk 
about it—even think about it. It was too real. It scares me!"
"Come on!" Chris moved faster than she had ever seen him. Before she could 
dodge, he had caught hold of her arm, was urging her toward the kitchen door. 
Behind his glasses his eyes were fully open, and the shut-in look of his face 
was gone. She could not fight to free herself, for Clara was coming with her 
no-nonsense, it's-nearly-time-for-me-to-leave look. And Nan, even in the short 
time she had lived here, knew better than to argue with that.
Chris propelled her down the hall to his bedroom, pushed her in ahead of him, 
and shut the door. Curious, Nan stood where she was while he pulled open the 
bottom drawer of the small desk. Sheets of paper were flung to the floor as he 
stood up, holding the inn.
Nan retreated hurriedly. "No!" she said loudly. "I won't!"
As clearly as if he had said it aloud, she knew what Chris wanted. He wanted her 
to hold that—that thing! And she would not. She must forget all about it. 
Frantically Nan groped behind her for the doorknob, got hold of it, and somehow 
scrambled out into the hall. But she did not feel safe until she was in her own 
room with the door fast shut behind her. She dropped on the edge of the bed, 
breathing as if she had been running, determined that if Chris followed her she 
would scream or something. And she was sure that he did not want anyone else to 
know about the Red Hart; though how she could be so certain of that, she had no 
idea at all.



Chris shook his head. Girls! You would think he had tried to make her take hold 
of a snake! Nan was really scared of the inn. But why? He had never held so 
perfect a model before. Just because of a dream—He raised the miniature building 
to eye level. The tiny sign swung a little on the wires he had used to fasten it 
in the proper place. For just a second he could imagine that he was back in the 
cobbled yard which lay beyond that high arch, that he was hurrying toward the 
oven—
No, as detailed as that memory was, he thought, it had been only a dream. 
Reluctantly he put the model in the drawer and repiled the papers over it. Then 
he heard Aunt Elizabeth come in, speak to Clara.
It took him only a few seconds to shake out his book bag, have things piled out 
on the desk as if he had been working. Would Nan tell?
As Chris crouched in his desk chair, twisting his fingers into his hair, staring 
down at a page he did not see at all, he worried. That was queer what Nan said 
she had done in the dream—run her fingers over the wall and so learned where the 
hiding place was. But then weird things were always happening in dreams. He just 
hoped she would keep her mouth shut.
He continued to wait tensely through dinner and the short time they were helping 
clean up afterward for Nan to blurt it all out. She did not; she just chattered 
on about some girls named Marve and Pat and how she would ride to school with 
them tomorrow, talking so fast that it was as if she were afraid he was going to 
say something, never looking in his direction at all.



Nan waited in the lobby the next morning. Chris had gone on, not even giving her 
a glance as he slouched out the door into the snow which was now fast turning 
into a gray slush. She was glad he had not tried to get her alone again, said 
anything more about the inn. It was only a dream after all. And when she allowed 
herself to remember some parts and could still be afraid, she tried hard not to.
A horn honked outside, and Haines beckoned to her. She hurried to the street and 
jumped a ridge of grimy snow to squeeze in beside Marve on the front seat of the 
car, saying a shy "hello and thank you" to Marve's father behind the wheel.
"Did you get your outline done?" Marve greeted her. "The Crab sure piles it on. 
Then half the time, when you get it done, she doesn't want it."
"This is library day." Pat had pushed forward in the back seat, so her face was 
just inches away from Nan's. "I forgot my book. Fact is, I can't find it." She 
laughed as if this was certainly no calamity. "Anyway, it gets us out of the 
room—and tomorrow's a day off because of teachers' meeting."
Marve ignored Pat's comments. Instead her hand closed over Nan's with a squeeze. 
"You have anything planned for tomorrow, Nan?"
Nothing, except what Aunt Elizabeth might think up. Chris would be at school. 
Suddenly the thought of staying in the apartment with Clara all day, or going 
shopping with Aunt Elizabeth—No, Nan would not be doing that, because tomorrow 
Aunt Elizabeth had her day as a volunteer Pink Lady at the hospital.
"No," she returned.
"We have—" Marve's excited voice made Nan glance at her, only to see that the 
other girl was eyeing her sidewise with a measuring look. "Tell you what, you 
can come with us."
"But—" That protest came from Karen. She only got out the one word. Pat was gone 
from just behind Nan; maybe she had shut her up. Nan wondered if Karen did not 
want her to know Marve's plans. She felt uncomfortable again—the outsider. But 
Marve gave her hand another squeeze as if to reassure her.
It was not, however, until noon, when they were eating lunch, that Marve 
explained.
"M' mother says we can go to Lumley's tomorrow," she announced. "She said she'd 
give me the money for the tearoom there, and we can have lunch."
Pat and Karen were watching Nan with absorbed interest. Pat gave her narrow 
smile and then a nod.
"They're having the month-end sale," Marve announced. "Did you see their ad this 
morning? All those neck chains reduced one fourth." She laughed.
Karen smiled. "Yes. And the T-shirts—"
Nan had a queer feeling that all they were saying was a cover for something 
else. She glanced from one face to another. Something out of the past arose in 
her mind. No, she was not going to think about it—that queer feeling she had had 
in her dream that if she just looked, looked in some odd way with her mind 
instead of her eyes, she would find out a secret. That had been a dream, and it 
had nothing to do with the here and now!
"You can come along if you want," Marve was saying. "M' mother'll phone your 
aunt about it, if you want her to. Lumley's is great for shopping, especially on 
sale days."
Pat laughed again, and Karen echoed her. They did mean something Nan could not 
understand; she was sure of it. But she was willing to have a day away from 
Clara's grumbling and the apartment which never, never, would be home.
"I'll ask," she agreed.
Aunt Elizabeth had no objection to the proposed shopping expedition. And Nan was 
ready by ten the next morning when Marve, Pat, and Karen called for her. 
Lumley's was not too far away, about five blocks, and since Aunt Elizabeth had 
already left for the hospital, she was not there to insist upon their taking a 
taxi.
Nan had passed Lumley's twice, but both times she had been with Aunt Elizabeth. 
All she had seen were the display windows and the big front doors. Now she felt 
a little strange about going in with the girls, but Marve led the way as if such 
visits were ordinary.
The store aisles were very crowded, and Nan was bumped by ladies who paid little 
or no attention to anything which was not heaped on tables and counters with big 
red sale signs over them. She had to hurry fast to keep the girls in sight, and 
it was only because Marve was wearing a bright scarlet car coat that she did not 
lose them.
They headed straight for the jewelry department where there were jumbles of 
chains and pins lying on the counter, other necklaces dangling from tall 
standing rods. She watched Marve stir around in the mass on the table, pick up a 
pendant made like a big apple, the same color as her coat, and dangle it from 
its glittering chain. Pat pushed a finger back and forth, intent on the pins, 
while Karen stood beside Marve watching the swing of the apple as if enchanted 
by its brightly shining enamel.
"What do you think?" Marve asked, holding it against her coat and then away 
again. "With my blue shirt—"
"Super!" breathed Karen. "Just super!"
"How much?" Marve looked up at the clerk who had materialized so suddenly on the 
other side of the counter that she might have risen directly from the floor.
"Let me see." The pendant was scooped deftly out of Marve's hand, and the clerk 
turned over the small dangling ticket fastened to the chain. "Four dollars—this 
is a sale piece."
"About three dollars too much." Marve laughed and shrugged. "Thank you." She 
turned away from the jewelry counter.
Nan caught sight of a pin—a cat's head set with twinkly stones. She looked at 
the price on the card it was fastened to—three ninety-five. More than half of 
her two-weeks allowance. Too bad—she liked it.
Aware that Pat was brushing past her, she dropped the pin and hurried on. 
Lumley's, she decided, after they had visited the scarves, the T-shirts, and 
several other interesting places, was far too expensive. At each stop Marve had 
hunted out some one object and asked the price—even though Nan was sure she 
could see it for herself—while Pat stayed off a little, fingering through the 
things, and Karen hovered by Marve's shoulder with extravagant praise for 
Marve's taste.
As they turned away from the shirts, Nan began to think that this exercise in 
non-shopping was a boring way of spending the morning. She was glad when Marve 
said the tearoom was open for lunch now and they could go up and eat.
Marve asked the hostess for a table in the far corner of the room by a window, 
and when they had ordered sandwiches and Cokes and the waitress had left, she 
looked at Pat. "Well?" she asked softly.
Pat grinned her narrow grin and nodded. Nan looked from one to the other 
puzzled. Marve laughed.
"Show her," she ordered Pat.
Pat glanced around. There was no one near their table. She slid her hand from 
the wide pocket of her jacket. But she held it well below the surface of the 
table, so that Nan could see but no one else could notice.

On her cupped palm lay the apple pendant. Nan had only a glimpse, and then Pat's 
hand was gone into hiding once again.
"But—" Nan could not believe in what she had seen.
Marve laughed again softly, her eyes very bright. "No—it's not the same one. But 
they had three or four—didn't you see? Pat slipped that one off when I asked 
about the price of the other."
Nan felt sick inside. "That's—that's stealing," she said in a low voice.
Marve kept smiling. "It's a game," she said. "It's a double dare. One of us 
picks something and asks about it; then the one who has the dare for the day has 
to get one like it. I've got the money." She patted her wallet. "If anybody ever 
catches us, we can pay. But nobody ever has yet."
Pat watched Nan with that sly smile. "She's scared stiff," she announced. "But I 
don't think she's going to blab any. Look in your left pocket, Nan dear." Her 
voice was sharp and triumphant.
Nan, startled, felt in her pocket. Her fingers closed about the sharp edges of a 
card. She pulled it out, to see the cat's-head pin.
"No—I didn't—" She was so frightened she wanted to run away from this room, from 
Pat, from all of them.
"Who would believe you?" Pat asked. "You were looking at it; the clerk probably 
noticed you. And I'll bet you don't have enough to pay for it, do you? All 
right. If they catch you with that on you, what good will it do you to say you 
didn't take it?"
Nan shoved the card back in her pocket. She was cold. This was repeating the 
nightmare of her dream, the horrible feeling Uncle Jasper had brought upon her. 
Because everything Pat said was the truth. No matter how much she denied it, who 
would believe her? She did not understand how Pat had put the pin into her 
pocket; that it was there was frightening enough.
Marve nodded. "Pat played a trick on you," she said as if it meant nothing at 
all. "Now you have the right to play one on her—give her a double dare. Don't 
sit there looking as if the world has come to an end. Kids do it all the 
time—it's just a game."
"Look out," Karen hissed. "Here comes the waitress."
Nan stared miserably down at the table. The pin seemed to weigh down her pocket. 
She must get rid of it. But how? She could not possibly go back to the jewelry 
counter and just hand it over. As Pat said—who would believe her?
"Give her a double dare now." Marve was insistent when the waitress had left 
their sandwiches and had gone again.
"No." Nan had been hungry, but now all desire to even taste the sandwich was 
gone. First she had been afraid; now she was getting angry. Uncle Jasper had 
believed he could frighten and bully her into being his spy. And now these three 
were trying to make her be a part of their "game." She would think of something; 
she must!
Pat looked at Marve across the table. "I told you," she said scornfully, "she 
hasn't the guts to try. Look at her. Another minute and she'll be bawling her 
head off!"
Nan deliberately reached for her sandwich, made herself take a bite, and chew. 
Somehow it tasted of apples and cinnamon, though she knew very well it was 
chicken salad. She had outwitted Uncle Jasper—even though that was only a dream. 
Now she must outwit Pat and the others.
"I won't tell on you—" she began.
"You're so right!" Pat snapped. "Just try it—"
"But," Nan continued as if she had never been interrupted, "I won't give Pat any 
dare either."
She laid down the sandwich. She could not eat the food Marve had promised to pay 
for—it would choke her. And she had an idea of what she was going to do. Before 
any of the other three could move, she got up.
"Good-bye," she said and walked away, refusing to look back.
When she came to the outer lobby of the tearoom, she went to the girl who had 
charge of the checkroom.
"Please," Nan summoned up her courage, "where do you leave things you have 
found?"
"You can turn them in right here."
Nan brought the card with the pin out and laid it on the ledge. "I found this."
"Oh." The girl picked it up. "Must have slipped out of a bag. That happens once 
in a while. Thank you. We can keep it until someone calls. If you leave your 
name—"
Nan shook her head. "I don't care—it's just that it doesn't belong to me."
Someone pushed up to leave a filled shopping bag, and Nan slipped by, heading 
for the nearest elevator. She felt the same relief she had felt in the dream 
when the boy who was Chris had taken away whatever lay behind the paneling in 
the Red Hart Inn. In a way she had taken a double dare after all, one that those 
three had not planned. The pin was returned, and she had not told on them. Maybe 
she should, but to that she could not push herself. Only she wanted no more of 
their "games."
Now they might try to make things hard for her, Nan believed. She would have to 
watch out, especially when Pat was around. That the other girl could have hidden 
the pin in her pocket without her knowing shook Nan.
She made her way as fast as she could through the sale crowds and did not really 
breathe freely until she reached the street, fearing that Pat and the rest could 
still in some way cause her trouble.
As Nan plodded back through the slush, she allowed herself really to recall for 
the first time every bit of her dream. If she had not faced up to Uncle 
Jasper—why, maybe she would not have been able to defeat Pat today.
But still the inn scared her. She hoped that Chris would keep it right where it 
was—hidden in his desk—and she would never have to see it again.



She was evasive when Aunt Elizabeth asked her about her day. Yes, they had gone 
to Lumley's, and yes, Marve had treated them to lunch. But when Aunt Elizabeth 
suggested that she repay Marve's treat with a visit to the movies this coming 
Saturday, Nan said she would have to see—that Marve had ballet lessons, which 
was true as Marve had spoken of them with pride only yesterday.
When she went to do her homework, Chris was waiting for her in the hall.
"Listen." He caught her arm. "The inn—I had to put it in your room. Aunt 
Elizabeth says my desk has to be refinished and the man's coming for it 
tomorrow. I haven't any other place Clara doesn't look into—"
"I don't want it!" Nan replied in a low but fierce voice.
"You've got to keep it!" he returned just as emphatically.
Nan could see there was no arguing with him. Very well, she would keep it, at 
the bottom of her dresser drawer.
Yet when she had finished the book report for the Crab, Nan could not help but 
open that same drawer once again and pull aside her neatly folded sweaters to 
look at it. She was both afraid and fascinated. At last, against her will, she 
set the model on the bedside table. If it just did not look so real!
She longed to hide it away again. But she discovered she could not. However, 
later, as she settled in bed, she determinedly turned her head away. Though she 
knew very well it was there, she was not going to look at it again!



The Gentlemen
"Nan!"
At first the voice sounded far away, muffled.
"Nan!"
She opened her eyes and sat up in bed. But this was not her bed. In grayish 
light the ceiling sloped sharply toward one side where there was a small window 
nearly at floor level.
"Nan!" A heavy thump sounded on the door which flanked the bed.
She must have overslept. That was Emmy who had called her, and—Nan tumbled out 
of the covers, gave a gasp as her bare feet hit the icy boards of the floor.
"I'm a-coming," she called back. Grabbing for her first petticoat and wriggling 
that over her head, she tied it tightly over the smock which served her for both 
day and night wear. There was a second petticoat, a heavier one, and then her 
wool dress. She snuggled into that, before she dropped on the edge of the bed to 
pull on thick stockings she had knitted herself and to thrust her feet into 
heavy, clumsy shoes.
The water she had left overnight in the basin was ice-rimmed, and her breath was 
white on the air. She dabbed at her face with a wet end of rag and coiled her 
braid up to pin under her cap. Now there was just her apron, and she was still 
tying that as she scrambled down the narrow stairs toward the warmth of the 
kitchen.
Cook would be snappish, and they had three guests in the bedrooms, storm-stayed. 
Nan would be needed to haul up those big copper jugs of hot water which made her 
shoulders ache and to take the lady some hot chocolate later. If only Aunt 
Prudence was not aware of her tardiness! Could she possibly be that lucky?
"'Bout time you showed, wench!"
Cook rattled pans as she always did when she was angry. Nan did not even try to 
excuse herself. Cook would never listen anyway. Emmy pulled a face and shook her 
head warningly. There was no sign of Aunt Prudence. That was one bit of luck.
Emmy had already poured the water into the jugs from the big kettle. Nan knew 
what she would expect in return for that helpfulness—Nan's breakfast portion of 
bacon. Inwardly Nan sighed: Emmy always seemed to get ahead of her one way or 
another.
"To the Doe and the Unicorn," Cook ordered unnecessarily, just to show that she 
could give orders.
Nan nodded. The steam arising from the jugs burned her fingers. She took a good 
grip on the handles and started back up the crooked stair the servants used.
The Red Hart had five chambers for those wishing to spend the night. In the old 
days these had been shared. Now with gentry it was different. Of course each 
gentleman's servant slept on a floor pallet, and the lady had her abigail in her 
quarters.
No matter how carefully Nan went, a little water slopped over the top of the 
jugs. She would have to come back later and wipe that up. Now she set down each 
jug before the door with its painted design (of a stiff-looking doe and a 
prancing unicorn), knocked until she heard an irritated answer from within, 
before clumping back to the kitchen.
Cook was fussing over a tray of the best china, setting out cup, saucer, and 
chocolate pot. But she did not fill the pot with brew.
"No need to trouble about this yet," she was assuring herself rather than 
talking to either girl. "No fine miss opens her eyes before the sun is well up. 
Don't stand there a-gawking, wench," she turned on Nan. "Mistress will be 
a-waiting her bread and tea in the little parlor. Mind you cut it fine now—no 
plowman's hunks for her."
Nan wiped her hands on the edge of her apron and took the white loaf, which was 
guest fare and which Aunt Prudence shared. She was nervous about this. It was 
easy to cut a slice too wide or shave it too thin. Either way would bring her a 
scolding. And she must remember it was not Aunt Prudence, but Mistress Simpson 
now.
Not many women managed an important inn like the Red Hart. Mistress Simpson had 
inherited it from her father, Sam, and she had made it a good place for 
stopping. Gentry came when they were on their way to and from Rye.
Nan piled three slices of bread on a plate which matched the chocolate cup in 
pattern, set out a pat of butter that she had churned and worked two days ago, 
added a small dish of cherry jam to the tray with the cup and teapot. Mistress 
would make the tea herself from that kept in the locked caddy in the parlor.
Balancing the tray with all the care she could muster, Nan started down the 
hall. She could not dream of any fate worse than to drop and break a piece of 
that china. No matter if she was Mistress's sister's child, she'd have a sore 
back for that!
Aunt Prudence told her twenty times a day how lucky she was to be at the Red 
Hart at all—after what had happened at Tylsworth. Nan pressed her lips tightly 
together and tried to push away memory.
Only it was not easy to do that. She saw again the fire blazing high and heard 
the shouts of the men as they worked to get the animals out of the barn. Then 
the house had caught—and now there was nothing left but a cellar hole with 
briers growing up about it to hide its ugliness. Da'—he took cold, bad, on his 
lungs that night. And before the week was out he had died. Mum—she and Ruth, 
they went back to Granda'; and the land—John sold that. He said as how he was 
not going to risk going like Da'.
John had spoken out against Da', and Mum had said she did not want to see him 
ever again. All because Da' stood for the law and would not help "the Gentlemen" 
by leaving his horses loose for their use at night.
John said there was no harm in acting against bad laws, laws as made it hard for 
the poor man. If there were those as worked against those laws—like the 
Gentlemen, smuggling in what poor people could buy cheap—then they were doing 
all a good turn.
But Da', he said the law was the law. First he sheltered an Exciseman as was 
shot and left to die. He had a warning the smuggling Gentlemen had left pinned 
to his door with a knife. Then Da' said No when they wanted the horses. John 
said they believed Da' went tale-telling to the King's men. So Tylsworth was 
burned, and all of them—the Mallorys—except John, were looked upon by those who 
supported or gained by the smugglers' activities as traitors.
Aunt Prudence, she was Mum's older sister who had never wed. People said as how 
she was not minded to let any man rule her or the Red Hart when her father left 
it to her. She took Nan 'cause she said Nan was old enough to make herself 
useful, but she saw to it that Nan worked her way all right.
Nan knocked at the door and came in, dropping a curtsy after she set the tray on 
the table. Aunt Prudence looked at the silver watch which hung from her belt.
"You are late. Lateness wastes time, and time wastes money."
Nan knew better than to answer. She had learned that quickly enough after she 
came here. Now Aunt Prudence was critically inspecting the bread.
"At least, you've learned to cut a slice fairly." She spoke as if she begrudged 
having to admit that. "Well, be off—You must have plenty of tasks."
Nan curtsied again. "Yes, Mistress."
"Then be about them!"
Nan hurried back to the kitchen. If she did not get there in time, Emmy would 
have gobbled up more than just her ration of bacon.
"So there was he a-holding a fistful of grease and no pony at all!"
Hearty laughter filled the kitchen. Joshua, the head ostler, stood in front of 
the fire, the back of his stable-smelling jacket pulled up so he could warm the 
seat of his leather breeches. Cook, a far more pleasant expression on her face, 
splashed ale into a tankard for his refreshment, while Emmy sat on a stool and 
gobbled away from a plate resting on her knees, listening round-eyed.
But when Nan entered, Joshua's laughter came to an abrupt end. He eyed her 
unpleasantly, though a wide grin still held about his mouth.
"We be talking as how the new Riding Officer got befooled." His grin was 
malicious. "The Gentlemen have a way of sending their goods through. Take their 
ponies, they do, and shave down their hair, then grease 'em like Cook here puts 
grease to her skillet. After that, they gets them a good old mare as knows her 
way through a dark night and strings out the ponies behind her. No need for any 
man to lead 'em. And do anyone try to catch 'em—like as how the Excisemen did 
two nights past—they can't be caught. That Havers, he be always up to the 
tricks—a smart one, he is!"
That was meant for her, Nan well knew. She refused to look at Joshua. Instead 
she took up the plate Cook pushed at her. Bread and cheese—Emmy had already 
helped herself to the bacon. She leaned back against the edge of the 
dish-burdened dresser and began to eat. What tricks the smugglers played were 
nothing to her, she told herself. Havers—she had heard plenty about him. Though 
like as not that wasn't his right name. He could be any man in the village, 
leaving out the parson and the squire.
They all thought her father had been a fool, those who did not give him the 
harder name of traitor and say he took information to the Riding Officer. Anyway 
now it was none of her concern. If Havers wanted to parade his greased ponies 
down the village street in broad daylight, let him.
"Ho—the house!"
The call came from without loud and clear, and they could hear the ring of what 
must be more than one horse's hoofs on the cobbles of the stableyard. Joshua 
jerked away from the fireplace, surprised. It was early for travelers, and he 
had thought himself able to spend some time in the kitchen warmth. With a sullen 
look he made for the outer door.
Emmy had crowded to the window, her plump cheeks filled with the food she chewed 
as she went. In a moment she turned her head. "It's them!"
"Who's them?" Cook elbowed her swiftly away from her vantage point.
"The Excisemen!" Emmy swallowed. "They do have a hurt man with 'em!"
Cook did not look around, but her order reached Nan. "Nan, you go tell the 
Mistress. This will be for her deciding."
Nan sped back down the hall, knocked on the door, and was in the parlor before 
her aunt called permission to come.
Aunt Prudence frowned. "What is this—?"
"Aunt, Mistress"—Nan corrected herself hastily—"there are Excisemen outside, and 
they have a hurt man with them!"
For a long moment Aunt Prudence neither moved nor spoke.
Then she arose from her seat by the table, no expression at all to be read on 
her face. She moved past Nan in her decisive way and took the other door, which 
led directly to the stable yard, stopping only briefly to catch up a cloak from 
a peg.
The snow had been swept off the cobbles by the stableboy, and stamping and 
blowing here were three horses, their rough winter coats touched with frost as 
if they had been long outside. One man still in the saddle supported another, 
the reins of a led horse held with his own. But the third man stood fronting 
Joshua, his cloak thrown back a little to show his uniform coat.
"What's this to-do?" Aunt Prudence swept forward, that authority which was 
always hers making both men look quickly to her now.
"I've a wounded man here, Mistress, who needs shelter and tending. I am Robert 
Leggitt of the King's service."
Joshua spat. "He's an Exciseman; that's what he is, Mistress." He smirked slyly. 
"You don't want the likes of them around here."
"Be still!" Aunt Prudence looked from Master Leggitt to the pale-faced man with 
closed eyes. "I hope I know my duty, sir. Bring him in."
An hour later, Nan stood ladling hot water out of the steaming pot over the 
fire. She had run hither and thither, bringing salve her aunt made from herbs, 
carrying pieces of old torn linen to the small back room where belated travelers 
were sometimes packed away on the ground floor of the inn. Aunt Prudence and 
Master Leggitt had worked together, first getting out a bullet and then binding 
up the wound. Aunt Prudence thought their patient would be the better for 
bleeding, lest his fever rise too high, but admitted that the apothecary was 
near ten miles away and not like to ride this distance in such weather, for the 
snow had begun again and the cold was cruel.
"There is no right in it!" Joshua held forth in a low mutter with Cook and Emmy 
for an audience. "It was Havers as shot this fellow. Do you think he'll take 
kindly to having one of the King's Riding Officers to nurse and coddle? Mark me, 
we'll not come well out of this! The Mistress has had her way too long; she 
thinks she's above any man born. Well, she'll learn different. Right that is, 
Nan?" He grinned at her. "You could tell her a thing or two 'bout them what sets 
their will against the Gentlemen."
From somewhere Nan gathered the spirit to speak up. "What would you have her do? 
Leave a man to die?"
"If he'll bring Havers down on us," Joshua returned, "yes. Do you want the Red 
Hart to be burnt out like your da's place?"
For the first time Cook shook her head. "That he would not dare, Jos. The wench 
is right. Mistress is only being Christian, taking in one as is hurt."
"Havers might not see it that way."
"Joshua, Cook—Emmy!" Aunt Prudence came in, her bunch of keys swinging from her 
waist. "You have your tasks, get to them. Nan, the lady in the Leopard is awake. 
Do you take her up her chocolate, straightway now."
But before Nan had poured the chocolate into the delicate pot, she saw Aunt 
Prudence confront Joshua. "Put a saddle on Maggie as soon as you can and send 
Matt to me."
"Mistress"—the head ostler did not move—"if you be minded to send word—"
"I send word," Aunt Prudence said distinctly, her eyes holding Joshua's in a 
level gaze, "to the Excise station. Lieutenant Fitton who lies here has a young 
son visiting him there. It is well that he see the boy and soon. Matt is to ride 
Maggie and lead the horse Master Leggitt will give him. And there is to be no 
time lost, do you understand me, Joshua?"
The ostler wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Mistress, I would do you no 
good if I didn't say this. Havers will not take kindly to the sheltering of any 
Riding Officer—"
"Havers!" Aunt Prudence flushed. "Do not quote that house-burning rogue to me! 
These men are officers of the King, and as such I give them shelter as all 
law-abiding people must do. I will have no more arguments, do you understand? 
Send Matt to me—I shall write a note for him to carry, and he is to make the 
best time he can. Let him know that."
She turned her back on Joshua and marched out of the kitchen. The man stood for 
a moment pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger, his eyes fixed on 
the door before him.
Nan could delay no longer. Carefully carrying the tray she made her way up to 
the door of the Leopard where she scratched on the panels, until she was faced 
by the stiffness of my lady's maid, who took the tray smartly and bade that hot 
water be brought directly.
Now she had a busy hour, running back and forth. The two gentlemen guests had 
come down into the larger parlor and were impatiently waiting breakfast, so that 
Nan struggled with larger and heavier trays. In spite of the confusion Cook had 
done well. There were platters of cold ham and beef, sausages sizzling fresh 
from the pan, fried eggs, fresh bread with cherry jam and butter—tankards of 
ale.
If these guests knew about the early morning arrival at the Red Hart, they 
showed no curiosity but ate their way stolidly through what was offered them. 
Both were middle-aged and of sober dress, their wigs small and neat-tied. Save 
that one showed a waistcoat of brocade when his coat fell open and they both had 
a fall of lace at the throat, ruffles at their sleeves, they made less show than 
Squire Allard of the Manor on market day. When they had done, one went to look 
out the window and shook his head.
"No good day for the road, Thorpe. And with the young lady—No, I would not 
advise it. We lie snug enough here."
Nan, clearing away the dishes, saw the other man frown. "I do not like this 
delay. It is very necessary to make Rye as soon as possible. Girl"—he turned to 
Nan—"get our coachman here. We'll take Jenkins' word on the matter. He is not 
reckless and will know well the odds."
"Yes, sir." Burdened with her piled tray, Nan hurried back to the kitchen. "The 
gentleman wants his coachman."
Cook shrugged. "Then go call him; you have still a tongue in your head. He 
bedded down in the stable quarters last night. Not what he was used to, that 
one—turned his nose well up, Josh said."
Nan bundled her apron about her arms like a shawl and braved the cold of the 
courtyard, slipping into the stable. Joshua swung around at her coming. "What 
you want?" he demanded.
"The gentleman wants to speak to his coachman."
"I'll give him a holler. You get back in before you freeze stiff, girl."
But Nan sensed it was no care for her comfort which had made the ostler say 
that. He had never shown anything but a kind of sly contempt for her since her 
coming to the Red Hart.
She darted back into the warmth of the kitchen. Matt had not been there as 
usual, mucking out the stable. Neither had she seen Noel, the younger of the two 
boys whom Joshua both ordered and knocked about. And there had been something 
about the ostler which made her more uneasy than usual.
But Cook had plenty to do; the table in the parlor must be full cleared and Nan 
and Emmy share the washing up. Well, she knew she would get the rough side of 
Cook's tongue if she delayed that.
The coachman tramped through the kitchen, nodding loftily to Cook who must 
earlier have fed him, and went on to the forepart of the inn. In a short time he 
was back. "The master wants hot bricks," he announced.
"They never be going to set out in this?" Cook said in surprise. "Not with the 
young lady and all?"
"They ain't thinking of being set on by no smugglers neither," the coachman 
replied. "I told 'em what a boil your mistress is a mixing here, and they want 
none of it. She is a hen-witted female to set herself up against the like of 
Havers. My master, he's been a-going to Rye on business these ten years or more. 
He's heard plenty of tales and not nice ones either. Them as don't make trouble, 
don't have it dumped back on 'em. So we're off."
Cook stood where she was, watching wordlessly the coachman's exit. Her face was 
set.
"Like that is it?" she asked herself. "Jos, he's been spreading the word 
fast—and how far, I wonder, now? Nan"—she looked from the door which had closed 
behind the coachman to the girl—"you was out to the stable. Did you see Noel 
there?"
Her heart beating faster, for she already guessed the meaning behind that 
question, Nan shook her head.
Cook nodded. "I thought as much. Jos, he never has liked taking orders from the 
mistress. Not that she hasn't always treated him as fair as her father did. All 
right, get the bricks to the fire, Emmy, and hot them up good. You, Nan, go tell 
Mistress—" She hesitated and then added, "Mind you, I have no real thing to say, 
but tell her that Noel is nowhere in sight. Best be warned, if a warning is 
needed."
Nan fled down the hall. She felt both cold and shaky. She remembered too much of 
what it had been like when Da' stood up to the Gentlemen. Was it all going to 
happen again?
Aunt Prudence was in the small chamber with the wounded man. Those two who had 
ridden in with him stood against the wall, watching her lay a wet cloth on his 
forehead as he muttered and pulled at the covering over him.
"It's fever," she was saying as Nan came in. "Best one of you ride for the 
apothecary. At least he can tell you what can be done if he will not come 
himself. What do you want?" she ended more sharply as she sighted Nan.
"Cook sent me. The gentlemen and the lady—they are leaving. Jos told their 
coachman about"—she waved a hand to the bed—"they think Havers will cause 
trouble. And—well, Noel wasn't in the stable—'least I did not see him. Cook 
thinks—"
Aunt Prudence laughed suddenly. "If you have any other ill news, do keep it to 
yourself now, I beg of you. Yes, given that information, Havers will indeed be 
down upon us."
"If you have a wagon, Mistress, perhaps we could—" the younger man spoke for the 
first time.
"If you move him, like as not he will be dead within the hour," Aunt Prudence 
returned bluntly. "Also do you think you could leave here and that not be known? 
It depends now on chance—and that is not good.
"The windows—draw and bolt the shutters," she ordered. "We must make do as best 
we can. It depends on Matt, whether he is my servant or Jos's. Also whether the 
Lieutenant's son can summon any aid for us. I made it plain in my letter—
"Now"—she waved Nan ahead of her—"I must see to these parting guests who wish 
themselves well away from other people's troubles."
Once outside the door she dropped one hand on Nan's shoulder, and with her 
other, searched out a key from those which hung on a hoop at her waist. "Take 
this"—she slipped the key free—"and go to my father's chamber. Find his fowling 
piece and his two pistols, also any shot for them you can. Bring them speedily 
to the parlor."
The room had a musty smell and was very cold, but it was in order, for Aunt 
Prudence herself cleaned and dusted there once each month. The fowling piece was 
so heavy Nan had to drag it across the floor; all her experience with fetching 
and carrying had not prepared her for this weight. She found the pistols, two of 
them, long and heavy, too, just inside the chest lying on top of her 
grandfather's cloak. There was a bag of shot and a powder horn; she hurriedly 
assembled them all but had to make two trips to carry them down to the parlor.
The grind of coach wheels sounded on the cobbles—those bound for Rye were 
leaving. It was not until tomorrow morning that the stage from Rye would come 
by. Perhaps Aunt Prudence could send to the Manor. But that would not do much 
good. The Squire was up to London with his lady, and Nan suspected that none of 
his men would come to aid at the inn without his orders.
As she leaned the fowling-piece muzzle up against the table, Aunt Prudence came 
in. Nan handed her the key. "This was all I could find."
"Well enough. Now get your cloak, girl. You and Emmy are to go across to the 
Hodgins' cottage—"
Nan shook her head. "No."
For a moment she thought Aunt Prudence might box her ears for such open 
impudence. Then instead, she sighed. "I suppose you feel you have a right. But 
this is no game we play, Nan. Havers' men are rogues, no matter what is said of 
Gentlemen." Aunt Prudence's tone made a lie of that title. "I would not have you 
here when they come."
"I will not go!" Nan summoned up determination. "There must be something I can 
do. Carry a message to the Manor—"
But Aunt Prudence swiftly gave her the same answer her own good sense had given 
earlier. "To what purpose? The Squire is not there, and none of his servants 
would lift a finger. There is this you can do. Get on your cloak, and take up a 
basket, as if you were sent upon an errand, and go down the road to Malmsey's. 
Say to Granny that I have sent you for feverfew. By now all in the village—if 
Jos has done the work I believe he has—know well we have here a wounded man to 
be tended. If Granny asks you questions, say that the King's dragoons are on 
their way here to protect him, for he is an officer of some consequence. While 
you go, watch well for any sign that we are spied upon."
Nan nodded and went. A little more than a half hour later, she was back.
"Well?" Aunt Prudence took the dried herb packet from her basket.
"I did not see anyone. It was as if all have gone from the village. I told 
Granny about the dragoons. She said, 'Bad cess to them redcoats.' But she winked 
at me when she said it."
"They'll all take care in the village that they have nothing to do with what 
happens. Well, I could expect no more. But Havers will not come before 
nightfall; his kind slink in the darkness. Emmy has gone. You can make yourself 
useful to Cook now."
The big kitchen seemed full of corner shadows. Cook made a clashing with kettle 
and pans, but there was a curious emptiness. She shot a look at Nan. "If you had 
the sense of a newborn calf, wench, you'd take off with Emmy."
Nan's chin came up. "I don't see that you've run," she retorted.
To her surprise, Cook laughed. "I'm not one for running, not with all m' weight. 
Anyways, I've been with Mistress since I was smaller and thinner 'n you. She and 
her da' before her were good to me. I don't see as how this is the time to go 
skittering off and leaving her. Not with this to hand!" She touched finger to 
the handle of a mighty meat cleaver. "Jos and Noel are gone though. Rats scuttle 
fast enough. Let 'em. Now you get to work a-chopping them winter apples. I'm not 
setting away any work, and we've mouths to be fed here still."
They ate in the middle of the gray day. The snow had stopped. But the wind 
arose, whistling drearily around the eaves of the inn. The Excisemen, who had 
brought their officer, had barred all the shutters, and Aunt Prudence herself 
had locked all the doors in the late afternoon. The men had been out to feed the 
horses, only to report that the animals were gone, the stable empty.
Aunt Prudence did not seem surprised. But she took to looking at the big watch 
now and then as she walked restlessly through the rooms, when she was not at the 
bedside of the wounded man. He was sleeping, though Aunt Prudence roused him 
once to swallow a potion she brewed from her own stock of healing herbs.
Night came early and fast at this time of the year. Nan stole up to the second 
floor of the inn to peer out the windows as yet uncovered. There was no sign of 
life in the village, save some smoke being wind-driven as soon as it lifted from 
the chimneys. She could not even make out any tracks in the snow along the road. 
Like those in the Red Hart, the villagers were waiting.
"What are you doing here, girl?"
Nan almost cried out. The man had come into the dark from behind her so quietly 
she had not heard him. Then she saw his face and knew him for Master Leggitt.
"Just looking. There's no one around."
He pushed her away from the window. "They ain't taking chances, them down there. 
You be the Mallory girl?"
"Yes."
"Then you ought to know how Havers deals"—he stopped short—"There, I don't mean 
to make you think of that." He sounded as if he were ashamed of his 
outspokenness.
"You don't—make me think, I mean. Of course I remember," she answered quickly. 
"Do—do you think it is true—that the dragoons will come to our defense?"
"Maybe."
But he did not sound very confident, Nan thought, with more than the cold of 
this unheated room sinking into her now. "You think maybe Matt did not go or 
take the letter?"
"There's one thing I tell you true, girl," he returned. "If young Chris Fitton 
gets that letter into his hands, there will be action. He's right fond of his 
da'—there being just the two of them. He's getting schooling, he is—has a mind 
to make something of himself. But he's been staying with Lieutenant Fitton for 
nigh a month now, and I ain't never seen two who were so close. Seems like what 
one thinks, why, the other knows 'fore he says it. Yes, I would say young Chris 
would be on his way—did he get that letter! There ought to be three, four of our 
men at the station—and there's the King's dragoons—"
"Look!" Nan pointed past him. But already that shadow she was sure she had seen 
was gone.
"What did you see?" Leggitt demanded.
"Down there—by that tree. I thought I saw something move."
"There's a deal of wind shaking those bushes. Could be you saw just that. But 
you tell 'em below that I'm staying here to watch."
Nan hurried down the stairs. She was sure she had not seen any waving branch, 
rather that someone had slipped from one bit of cover to another.
Delivering her message, she found that Aunt Prudence was seated beside the 
wounded man, a shielded candle making poor effort to light the room. She was 
knitting steadily, much as Nan had seen her sit many times of an evening in her 
own parlor. But on the table beside the candle lay one of the pistols loaded and 
cocked as Nan well knew.




Chris Fitton crouched against the bushes and put his hands to his mouth. His 
fingers were so cold they were stiff, and blowing on the ice-matted wool of his 
mittens did little good. The inn was a big black bulk in the twilight. He could 
not see the slightest sign of light. Surely if his father had been as badly hurt 
as the latter reported they would not have tried to move him!
Ever since he had left the clumping dragoons about a mile back and had ridden on 
faster ahead, he had known that he must be cautious, as wary as if he were a fox 
with hounds on his trail. He had left his horse hidden in the brush so that it 
would be easier to get to the inn unseen. At least Sergeant Johnston knew his 
father well enough to be willing to turn out his men when the warning came.
He had to get in the inn, though he remembered what he had gleaned in the way of 
information from the boy who brought the letter. This Havers had half the 
country so afeared of him that no one would stir a hand to help. At least the 
woman had taken his father into shelter, and maybe she—
Chris measured the distance between the opening to the courtyard and his present 
hiding place. He ought to be able to make that easily, if he was surefooted 
enough not to slip in the snow.
And he did, though he slipped on the cobbles within and went to his knees, 
scrambling up again quickly. He had the buildings in mind, just the way Matt had 
told him. To his right now one of those tightly shuttered windows must be that 
of the room where his father lay. He set his shoulder to the wall and hitched 
along it. At the second shutter he gave a low whistle on three notes.
There was a pause, and then he whistled again, daring to rise this time to his 
full height and strike twice on the shutter. The sound was so loud in this very 
quiet courtyard that he shrank even more against the wall, listening.
All at once over his head there was an answering thump of fist against the other 
side of the shielded window. Then through that barrier he heard a muffled voice, 
"Who?"
"Chris Fitton!"
"Get to the stable," he was ordered. "There is a door there."
Chris moved with the best speed he could summon, remembering Matt's directions, 
seeking the horse-scented darkness of the stable. There was already a crack of 
light, dim but still to be seen. He headed directly for that, as a door swung a 
little wider and he caught sight of Leggitt, holding a shielded lantern in one 
hand and peering out into the straw-strewn gloom.
Moments later Chris stood at the foot of the bed. Though there was a candle set 
on a nearby table, he could see little of his father's flushed face. But that 
dark head turning on the pillow and the continual mutter of speech too low to be 
clearly heard made the boy doubly anxious.
"He—he is very ill?" Chris tried to ask in his normal voice, not to show his 
fear.
"It is the fever." The tall thin woman with the set face changed the wet cloth 
on his father's forehead.
Chris clutched hard at one of the bedposts, his voice rising high. "Can't—can't 
you do something!"
She did not even look at him, her attention was all for the man. "What we can 
do, we have done."
"There's a doctor in Rye—"
Now she did look at him. "He cannot be moved. Nor do I think that now you could 
bring the doctor to him either."
Chris remembered. "You mean—because of them?” He gestured toward the wall with 
the shuttered window.
Before she could answer, the door behind him opened, and he looked quickly over 
his shoulder. A girl stood there, carrying a tray with a small cup and a jar on 
it. She moved swiftly to the bed, walking as if she did not wish to spill what 
she carried.
"They have been seen," she said in a low voice. "Master Leggitt wants him." She 
nodded toward Chris.
"You had better go for now," the woman said. "There is nothing you can do here 
at present. If he wakes to know you, I shall send for you at once."
Reluctantly Chris went, but the girl pattered after him. "This way"—she beckoned 
him on as she passed him in the hall.
Chris came blinking into a big kitchen. Master Leggitt sat gnawing at a lump of 
bread and cheese. He took a long drink of ale from a tankard to help him swallow 
before he spoke to Chris.
"You say that the dragoons are coming. It may be that they are going to walk 
into a trap. There is only one road in, and Havers and his gang could lay hidden 
at any of a dozen places along it. Our men wouldn't have a chance."
"You think they'd dare attack the dragoons?"
"Havers will," the Exciseman said. "He hates Master Leggitt with a black 
hate—has sworn half a hundred times he'll see him dead to pay for his brother, 
as the Lieutenant took for hanging. He is no common porter or henchman, look 
you. The whole of this part of the countryside is afraid of his bullyboys. I 
think why he has held off rushing us so far is because he wants to get any help 
sent us into the bargain. To win a victory over dragoons as well as Excisemen 
will prove that he is as great a man as he thinks he is—make his rule here that 
more safe. We can't let the dragoons ride in unknowing of the danger."
"There is a way—"
Both of them were startled, for it was the girl who had spoken. For the first 
time Chris really looked at her. She was thin and tall—rather like the woman who 
nursed his father—her hair braided up under a plain maid's cap, her dress that 
of a chambermaid with not even small pretensions toward any fashion. With 
longish nose and a wide mouth, she was not such as anyone would look at twice. 
Only her eyes were different. Now they were fully open and looked greenish as 
might a cat's in the glow of the fire.
"What do you know then?" Master Leggitt demanded.
"There is a side way; it runs through the woods. Men cannot ride it, but they 
can walk it, leading their horses—"
"If it is known then, Havers will have it watched also."
"But it is not known to any save those who live hereabouts. I do not think he 
will expect any local person to give the dragoons a guide."
"He would see any venturing forth from the inn." Master Leggitt rested chin on 
fist, watching her narrowly.
"Perhaps—perhaps not. There is snow, master. If one were dressed in white and 
dropped from a window to the back, using great caution, there is a chance."
"Dressed in white?" Chris echoed. He understood Master Leggitt's fears. If there 
was any way out, then they must look for it.
The girl waved a hand. "We have sheets in plenty; they can be made into cloaks."
"And your guide? Your menfolk have made off—"
"Me," she answered simply. "Remember, master, I have a quarrel with this Havers, 
too. I am Nan Mallory, and near a year agone—"
"Just so." Master Leggitt nodded. "But a young maid—no."
"Yes," returned Nan as if she were bracing herself for some effort. Chris saw 
that her hands were tightly clasped over the band of her apron.
"I cannot let—"
"You have no choice this night!" Her voice held almost the same ring of 
authority Chris had heard from the woman with his father.
"I'll go"—Chris found his own voice—"if she can show me the way. Sergeant 
Johnston knows my voice; he might not listen to a stranger out of the dark."
"I do not like it."
"We may have no other choice!" Chris returned.
Nan looked from one to the other. "I shall get the sheets," she said.



But she was far from feeling brave as she slashed holes in the sheets so these 
could serve as cloaks. Somewhat to Nan's own surprise Aunt Prudence had favored 
her plan, but she had insisted that they venture no farther than the crossroads, 
circling around toward that from the woods.
"You know the danger in this?" she had asked Nan privately. "Havers and his 
henchmen—"
"I have seen what they do," Nan found courage to answer. "They may try to burn 
the Red Hart. And no one in this village will come to help."
"If you will go, then be quick and also careful." Aunt Prudence turned her head 
to speak to the boy. "Try no heroical attacks; it is enough for both of you to 
carry the message."
Nan watched the boy. There was little likeness in his face or coloring to the 
wounded man. He had light hair tied back with a cord, and his skin was brown as 
if he were much out of doors. He could have been Matt or Noel or any of the 
stableboys she had seen come and go, save that there was a look about his mouth 
and a square set to his chin which was different in a way she could not 
describe.
Now here she was cutting up good sheets while he stood talking to Master 
Leggitt, who was impressing this and that piece of caution on him.
With one corner of sheet tied over their heads to form hoods, and the rest 
bundled and looped about them, they slipped through the window where Master 
Leggitt stood on guard, ready to snap shut the shutter as soon as he saw them 
safely into the berry bushes beyond.
Nan's heart beat so heavily that she found it hard to breathe. The worst was to 
expect any moment to hear a cry out of the shadows, maybe even the roar of a 
pistol. As they reached the poor shelter of the bushes, with the orchard 
snowbound beyond, she felt weak with relief.
Here she had to take the lead, slipping from one tree to the next; then came the 
hedge. Beside that, they went to hands and knees, crawling along, halting and 
flattening themselves in the snow at any sound.
At the break in the hedge, Nan forced her way through, holding branches so these 
would not snap back in Chris's face. She had heard nothing but the small sounds 
of their own passage and the moan of the wind.
They were in the wood now, along the edge of the Manor land. This was no night 
for a gamekeeper to be on patrol, and if they could follow to the drive, it 
would be easy to reach the crossroads. Nan knew that they must hurry. The 
dragoons had not been too far behind Chris Fitton when he had left them earlier 
that morning to ride ahead.
Gasping and stumbling, she forged on, holding up the folds of the sheet with one 
hand, fending off branches with the other. It seemed forever, but at last they 
came out upon the drive. Nan had no breath left in her for words, so made a 
gesture toward the left.
Chris took the lead now, she wavering behind. He never looked back to see how 
she fared but kept at a steady jog while the distance between them lengthened. 
Then Nan heard the sound of horses. Chris put on an extra burst of speed as she 
floundered miserably, the snow packing on sheet and skirt until she could hardly 
keep her feet.
Chris reappeared, behind him a line of dark figures, who, once within the Manor 
lands, slid from horseback. The dragoons!
"Now then, missy"—one of them, evidently a sergeant, took her firmly by the 
arm—"if you can just show us this path."
Nan turned around to lead them back. She heard a mutter or two, quickly broken 
off at a hiss from the man who now helped her along. But she was so weary that 
the last part of the journey seemed a bad dream. They could see the rise of the 
inn, a black fortress without any lights; then there was the roar of a musket.
"Well now, that's done it!" said her companion. "All right, boys"—he did not 
raise his voice very high—"we'll just go in and show this hedge-lurkin' scum 
what they's got to face. Missy, you stay here! Come on, boys!"
Nan crouched in the drift where she had half fallen as he let go of her. A 
moment later another hand fastened on her arm jerking her up again.
"I'll get you in!" It was Chris Fitton. "I'm going to see that Havers' men don't 
get in to m' father—if the Sergeant can't stop 'em!"
He half dragged her back, and they found the shutter which Master Leggitt had 
closed but not barred. Chris boosted her in the window. Soaked and chilled, Nan 
collapsed on the floor, hearing shouting and the crack of shots. With a little 
cry of fear the girl put her hands over her ears, tried to shut out the sounds 
of battle. Whatever courage had sustained her deserted her now—leaving her very 
much afraid.



6
"Get Rid of It!"
Nan's eyes were squinted as tightly shut as she could hold them, her hands 
covering her ears, as she cowered down in a nest of sheets and blankets—
Sheets and blankets?
But she had been on the floor of the old inn, still under the window, just where 
Chris had pushed her. And the smugglers—!
Nan opened her eyes, blinked at the morning light. For an instant or so she 
could not believe what she saw. She was not at the inn, but back in her own bed, 
in Aunt Elizabeth's apartment.
Her hand went out. The inn squatted on her bedside table. It looked dark and 
ugly. She wanted to sweep the model to the floor, smash it. But somehow she 
could not complete the swing of hand to do just that.
Nan slipped out of bed on the opposite side, keeping as much room as possible 
between herself and the Red Hart. All at once she felt cheated. This dream had 
ended as so many dreams did—in the middle. She wanted to know if the dragoons 
and the Excisemen had won that battle she had heard in progress. Memory made 
vivid pictures in her mind: Aunt Prudence sitting by the wounded Lieutenant, the 
heavy pistol laid out near to hand in the candlelight—the look on Mr. Leggitt's 
face—Chris—What had happened to them all in the end?
And had it all happened once, a long time ago?
Nan dressed, glancing now and then at the model warily. As her first flash of 
fear faded, curiosity grew stronger. What had happened afterward?



Chris lay looking up at the ceiling. He did not try to move yet, though he knew 
that he was back in his own room, awake. He had been there again. But not with 
Master Bowyer this time—with his father!
He turned his head on the pillow to look at the picture frame on the chest of 
drawers. That was Dad—not that stranger who had lain muttering in fever. Yet 
even now one face seemed to slide over the other—dream over picture—leaving him 
still confused. Was he, Chris, sliding over the other Chrises in the same way?
The last moments of that dream—they were all mixed up. He thought he could 
remember men running away from the front of the inn as there was the heavy roar 
of pistols and muskets from the lower windows of the building. But—Chris sat up 
and pounded his fist down on the bed beside him—he did not know! Had that other 
Chris and his father been saved or not? What was real? He had never had such a 
dream except for the first time at the inn. They were like TV plays—only he was 
part of them, not just watching the action.
And Nan had been a part of this last dream, too. He remembered how wrapped in 
sheets they had crept through the woods and down the lane by the Manor. She had 
used her head, thinking of the sheets, that other Nan, he decided reluctantly.
He had just crawled out of bed when he heard a knock at his door. Not Aunt 
Elizabeth—she always just called. Chris opened it a crack. Nan stood there, with 
the inn in her hand. She thrust it toward him.
"Take it!" she said. "I don't want it. I don't want to see it—ever!"
"You said you'd keep it—"
"I never! You just told me to! I think you'd be better off if you just smashed 
the crazy thing. Get rid of it! It's—it's bad."
"How?"
"You know how!" She sounded as if she were working up for a regular fight. "It 
makes me dream—"
"Then you were there—when the smugglers trapped us?"
Her expression changed a fraction when she asked, instead of answered his 
question, "What happened at the end? I woke up just after you got me in the 
window. Did the dragoons win?"
Reluctantly Chris shook his head. "I don't know. I remember running down the 
hall, getting into the room where my father was in bed. The inn woman was 
there—she had a pistol. And there was a lot of noise and shooting—"
"I wish we did know—how it all came out, I mean," Nan said slowly. "It isn't 
fair just to know part of it this way."
Chris had taken the inn from her. Now he studied the model. "Maybe we could try 
again—dreaming, I mean."
Nan whipped her hands behind her back and pulled away as if he might force her 
to handle the model once more.
"I don't ever want to dream like that again!" she declared. "You'd get rid of 
it, if you've got any brains."
Then she was gone, hurrying into her own room and shutting the door quickly 
behind her.
Chris stood staring down at the inn. There were parts of that dream which he did 
not want to lose. The Chris Fitton who had brought the dragoons, who had come to 
help his father—that Chris made him somehow proud. He was a different Chris, one 
he wished he really was.
It was plain Nan was not going to keep the inn for him. He looked around the 
room, hunting for a good hiding place. At last he rolled it in a T-shirt and put 
it at the bottom of his dresser drawer, piling all the rest of his wardrobe on 
top. That was the best he could do for now.
Then he heard Aunt Elizabeth calling impatiently and huddled on his clothes in 
the usual scramble.



"I can walk, truly, Aunt Elizabeth." Nan was sitting at the breakfast table. 
"Most of the girls do. You needn't worry."
"I don't like it," Aunt Elizabeth returned, shoving her coffee mug back and 
forth and frowning into it. "You aren't used to city traffic and—or are the 
girls going to stop by for you?"
For some reason Chris noticed Nan's face redden, but Aunt Elizabeth had not 
looked up. He sensed that Nan found that question a difficult one to answer, and 
before he had thought out properly the consequence of such an offer, he spoke 
up, "We go the same way, don't we?"
Nan glanced at him in open surprise.
Now Aunt Elizabeth looked up, as if he had surprised her, too. "Well—that might 
be good, Chris. But you'll have to hurry if you are going to walk."
Nan said nothing more at all until they had gone down in the elevator, through 
the lobby, and were out on the pavement.
"Why did you say you'd walk with me?" she demanded bluntly.
Chris shrugged. "She had you in a corner, didn't she?"
Nan glanced away. "Well—yes."
"All right, so I got you out." He added nothing to that but squished along 
through the dirty slush, looking as sullenly aloof as he always did. Though 
sometimes, when Nan looked at him, she had the strange feeling that he was 
another person—two other persons, both of whom she had met in those disturbing, 
alarming dreams.
Nan dared at last to break the silence between them. "You don't like being here, 
do you?"
"It's all right." Chris kicked at a lump of gray-coated snow.
"Well, I don't! I wish I was back in Elmsport. I—" She stopped. You could not go 
on talking to someone who would not look at you, who made it so plain he did not 
care what you said, or felt.
"Look here," Chris said after a long moment, "we didn't ask for this, either of 
us. That right? So—well! we have to take it—at least for a while."
Nan seized on that "for a while." Did Chris have some plan which would get him 
out of Aunt Elizabeth's care? If so, perhaps she could use a similar one.
"What are you planning to do?" she asked.
Now he did look at her, his glasses making him seem to be wearing some kind of a 
mask. "I don't know what you mean."
"You said 'at least for a while.'"
"They have to come back sometime," he muttered.
Nan knew what he meant. "She never stays—"
They did not mention names; there was no need. Nan looked down quickly at the 
pavement. She was not going to let him see what remembering meant to her.
"He said that this was the last out-of-the-country job."
Did Chris believe that? That his father would come back for good? Maybe it might 
be true for him, but for her—There was only one home—Grandma's—and that was gone 
now.
She did not answer or question his statement. They were very near the Academy. 
She could see three boys standing by the gate watching them. And she did not 
like their expressions at all.
"Here's old owl-eyes!" The tallest one moved out a little.
Nan did not see Chris flinch or look any different from the way he always did, 
but somehow, inside her—just as that feeling had come to the Nan who had 
searched for the inn secrete—she felt his fear. He—he hated these boys, was 
afraid of them, too. But he would never let anyone know. She stared defiantly at 
the trio.
"Got a chick—old owl has," commented another.
They were all grinning in a nasty way, she thought.
"How come you rate a chick?" The tall one blocked their way.
Nan stiffened. Just as she knew Chris's inner fear, so now she read his stubborn 
refusal to give into it.
"This is my sister, Canfield."
Nan lifted her chin, her own defiance sharpened by his. She stared straight into 
the grinning face of the leader. He started to laugh and stepped farther out, so 
that Nan could not get around him.
Then Chris's book bag swung, hitting the other on the arm.
"Sorry"—Chris's voice held to its usual sullen monotone—"I must have slipped. 
See you later, Nan."
She did not want to go and leave him—not with those three. But she also knew 
that she must not stay. This was Chris's trouble, and he would have no part of 
her in it.
"Good-bye." It was not what she wanted to say, but it was all she could think 
of. And she made herself walk slowly. Maybe if she was still there, they would 
not gang up on Chris. Because that's what they were going to do.
"Good morning, Canfield, Rocklyn, Fitton—"
She dared to look over one shoulder just as she neared the corner. There was a 
man standing in the yard, watching the boys. And they were filing past him. Nan 
drew a breath of relief. Chris might not be free of them, but for now he was 
safe.



"We're going to have a word with you, man." Canfield crowded against Chris as 
they started in the door. "You've got an in with the Batman, and you're going to 
work it—or else!"
He slammed the palm of his hand hard between Chris's shoulders. But if he had 
thought to send the shorter boy sprawling, he did not succeed. Chris had known 
enough of Canfield's methods to brace himself.
The bell was ringing for assembly. At least Canfield and his not so merry 
men—the crowd who followed him all the time—would be in another section. Chris 
drew a short breath of relief and plodded to his own assigned seat.
So he had an in with the Batman, Chris thought ruefully; that's all they knew 
about it. Mr. Battersley had a reputation of being tough, but he knew his stuff. 
And Chris was glad of one thing, that he had managed to keep up in class well 
enough not to pick up any F's. The Batman did not play favorites; he was 
impartial about grading. What marks you got in his class you earned, and you did 
it the hard way.
English Lit was not a class where you goofed off and then passed because you 
were on some team or your folks came and made a scene in the Head's office. 
Chris guessed that the Batman could even handle such parents if it came to that.
He was not listening to the droning voice from the front of the room. Rather he 
was impatient with himself. Why had he ever marched Nan into plain sight? That 
would give Canfield a lever to get at him, or at least shoot off his mouth a 
lot. He had been ready to do it before Nan, too. And Chris knew well how nastily 
Canfield and his gang could talk when they wanted to. At least Nan had not heard 
any of that.
He was out of morning assembly and nearing English Lit when Canfield stepped in 
front of him. Chris stopped and stood stolidly still. He had learned long ago 
that one of his best weapons of defense was to be simply a rock of silence, to 
stand expressionless and let the other guy wear himself out trying to provoke a 
fight.
"Owl, you're getting too smart." Canfield grinned at him. "I get some very bad 
vibes from you. Now we can't have that."
"We sure can't, Canny," shrilled the most outspoken of the backers.
"No, so we're going to let you do the right thing for once, Owl. The Batman is 
going to run a quiz on Tuesday. He's got it all worked out. So you're going to 
get a copy by Monday. Then we'll all make A and knock Batman for a 
goal—Understand?"
When Chris did not reply, Canfield's grin grew wider. He reached out to grab a 
fistful of Chris's T-shirt, jerking the other toward him.
"I said, 'Understand?' We got gym this afternoon, Owl. I think you need to shape 
up—we can help you. We want you to be very fit, Owl—fit enough to get that exam 
sheet. We're your friends, Owl. Aren't we?"
There was a chorus of agreement to that. Then the second bell made a 
hall-shaking din, and Canfield released Chris, only the promise remained in his 
eyes. Chris swallowed twice as he settled into his seat.
Canfield meant every word of the threat he implied, even if he had not spelled 
it out. Either Chris did what was demanded, or there would be an "accident" in 
gym. And he would be given the rest of the morning to think about that, his 
imagination going to work on just what form Canfield's answer to his 
stubbornness might take. He was no superman hero, but—Chris's tongue swept over 
his lower lip—there was some part of him which would not allow him meekly to do 
as Canfield ordered. He would have to think. And with that threat hanging over 
him, thinking came hard.
In the end he used his first study period to visit the library. That was one 
place where he felt safe; Canfield would not get at him there. He built a 
barricade of three volumes of the encyclopedia and a dictionary. Behind that, he 
drew squiggles on a sheet of notebook paper and tried to think clearly.

But all he seemed able to remember was how he and Nan had crawled through the 
snow—in the dream. He had been able then to do what he was meant to do. But 
dreams were not real life—Suddenly somehow the pencil with which he had been 
doodling began to write out words. This was crazy, but it might work. Of course 
it would be only temporary, but perhaps if he managed to outwit Canfield and get 
him in enough difficulty, Chris could plan further ahead and stave off disaster 
entirely.
He had this advantage; the rest of that gang were not in the Batman's first 
class. They were in the second session because they were in the A lab group. And 
he was pretty sure that they never did more than the Batman squeezed out of 
them, either. In fact Canfield big-mouthed how he put it over on every teacher 
who tried to stuff anything into that solid head of his.
Chris's lips curved into a very faint smile. It would be worth it—it sure would! 
He'd have to fake something to give him an excuse from gym next week, but that'd 
be the part he could think of later. Now this was what he was going to do. His 
ball-point put down a series of sentences. He read it over and crumpled the 
paper, stuffing it away in his book bag. He would not trust any school 
wastebasket with this one!
And he was ready for Canfield an hour later with his promise that he would 
certainly try his best to get the exam.
"You'd better." Canfield flexed his hand, rounded it into a very visible fist. 
"You're pure prize chicken, Owl. We're not going to part with you."
Chris hoped he was registering the right amount of fear. And he took several rib 
jabs hard enough to leave bruises, being tripped to fall with force on his face. 
These were the reminders Canfield and his crowd delivered.
It was three before he got back to the English Lit room. He knew that eyes had 
watched him go, and he made a business of talking to Mr. Battersley—bringing up 
the question of a term paper, one he had already decided upon. They must believe 
that he was laying the foundation for his intended raid.
Though they were nowhere in sight as he came out, Chris was sure all had been 
reported to Canfield. Now the next step depended upon some hard work with his 
own portable typewriter in as much secrecy as possible.
He was still laying his plans on his way home when a voice at his shoulder 
startled him. "Did everything go all right?"
Annoyed, he looked around at Nan. "What're you doing here?" he demanded. "And 
what do you mean about things being all right?"
She looked a little confused. "It was those boys—" she began hesitatingly. "I 
thought—"
"You don't have to think anything," retorted Chris roughly. If she was going to 
come hanging around, believing he could not handle his own life—that would be 
beyond the limit!
"No, I don't," she fired back. Now she put on speed, marching ahead of him with 
her head in the air as if he no longer existed at all.
Which was just as he wanted, Chris told himself quickly.



7
Not Guilty
After supper Chris laid out his papers on the table in the kitchen, since his 
desk had gone to be refinished. He had his Lit book out, and he was 
concentrating harder than he ever had for real classwork. This must be good 
enough to pass Canfield's inspection. At least, by paying attention in class and 
with an excellent memory of the Batman's earlier exam this term, he had a pretty 
good idea of what might turn up as main questions. The idea was, of course, not 
to follow the previous exam too closely.
In the end he had an exam figured out. Now all he had to do was type it. 
Carefully he tore all his practice notes into small pieces, shaking them into 
the bag for the incinerator. He was so tired his head ached, but he surveyed 
what he had done with some pride.
Saturday morning he used his typewriter and had to make three copies to be sure 
that the end result was free of errors. He was so intent on what he was doing 
that he paid very little attention to Aunt Elizabeth or Nan. Luckily they went 
shopping, while Clara did not bother him in his room where he installed the 
typewriter on a chair and sat on the bed to use it.
Carefully he again shredded his final copy. The important part was the carbon, 
the copy of the exam that Mr. Battersley might well keep in his desk. But how to 
get it to Canfield? That must be worked out with all the patience and care Chris 
could summon.



Nan shifted the bag of groceries as she walked across the lobby behind Aunt 
Elizabeth. She had had to fend off as well as she could two suggestions made by 
Aunt Elizabeth about entertaining Marve and her pals. That they now ignored her 
at school was fine as far as she was concerned, though she had been uneasily 
aware of whispering and the fact that she was again strictly on her own as far 
as they were concerned. How she longed to get away—away from everything which 
made up this new life!
"Mail." Aunt Elizabeth set down her bag to use her key on the box in the lobby. 
There were a lot of letters, but Nan was indifferent until Aunt Elizabeth 
produced one from Grandma, which Nan had to keep herself from snatching. There 
was a postcard from Mother—one showing on the picture side a queer stone 
face—which Nan took with less excitement.
When they were back in the apartment, she carried Grandma's letter to her room 
and sat down before taking off her coat to tear open the envelope.
Grandma was much better; the warmth was good for her. There was a pleasant group 
of ladies who met on Monday mornings in the recreation hall to do handicrafts 
and Grandma's fingers were so much better she could sew again, so she was making 
Nan one of the new patchwork skirts. She had been asked out for supper twice by 
her neighbors—
Nan raced through to the end of the second sheet, then went back to the first 
and read it again. Nothing about wanting to be back home, to have Nan with her 
again. Only one thing—she read the paragraph slowly, word for word, her 
desolation mounting:
"I think, dear child, that I have been selfish all these years. Since I made a 
home for you, your mother missed much of the closeness which should have grown 
between you. Had I not taken you so completely, she would have seen better the 
need for this. Perhaps it is well that circumstances forced us into this new 
life. I am hoping and praying that now you will get to know each other as you 
should have years ago."
Nan dropped the letter to the floor. The postcard still lay on the bed, that 
nasty stone face glaring up at her. She poked it with her finger until it 
flopped over. Mother always typed—well, she had sent about four lines this time.
Striving not to remember Grandma's letter, Nan mumbled half aloud: "Have 
finished the research. Jeff has two more weeks here; then we'll be seeing both 
of you. There is a surprise in the making. I think you'll be pleased."
Nan's reaction to that was a sullen humph.
She kicked at Grandma's letter, then stooped to pick it up and refold it into 
its envelope. Grandma was having fun! And that piece about Nan getting closer to 
her mother, she could guess what that really meant—that Grandma was tired of 
having her around! Nan rubbed her eyes fiercely. She was not going to cry!
But she would wait a good long time before answering. Grandma could just go on 
having all her fun. Since she did not really care what was happening to Nan, Nan 
need not care what was happening to her either.
As for any surprise—She had had surprises enough. And all of them so far had 
turned out to be the kind one could do without. She shuffled Mother's card 
against Grandma's letter and stuffed them both in the top drawer of the chest.



Aunt Elizabeth, of course, asked questions. How was Grandma? And Nan reported 
dutifully that Grandma was much better, thank you, and enjoying her Florida 
home. And Mother had finished her research. But she said nothing about the 
surprise. Chris had a letter, too. He hardly glanced at it while he was eating 
lunch, and pushed it unopened into his pocket when he excused himself, hurriedly 
for Chris.

Nan heard the typewriter going in his room. Not fast the way Mother had used it 
when she came to visit in Elmsport, but slow as if he studied each letter before 
he pushed the key. It seemed awfully important, whatever it was that he was 
doing.
Aunt Elizabeth routed him out of his room a half hour later with the news that 
they were all going to the space exhibit at the Mall. She was determined, Nan 
thought, to be sure they were entertained—though her own interest in space was 
not that great.
But it was fun after all to see the pictures and the mock-up of the moon ship, 
to view the rocks which the astronauts had actually picked up and brought back. 
The pictures taken of the earth from space were strange. Nan stood before one, 
gazing at the queer lines which seemed so distorted from those appearing in her 
textbook. There had been a report a week ago—Gary Evans had given it—about how a 
very old, old map found in Europe someplace showed the same distortions—and even 
that Antarctica on it had been pictured free from ice and snow and formed as two 
islands, which people now knew to be true.
For one moment Nan had a queer, out-of-her-body feeling, as if she were floating 
up in space looking down at the earth. It was a sensation which she dimly 
realized was close to the feeling she had had in the first dream, when she was 
sure she could find the hiding place by touching the panels of the inn parlor. 
What would happen if she could touch one of the moon rocks—not the person she 
now was but the other Nan who had been able to do such a strange and frightening 
thing? Would she see—what—? There was not much to see on the moon except rocks 
standing in tall ridges or lying down.
She walked on. Chris was by the mock-up of the rocket ship. Nan joined him.
"I wonder what it feels like," she said suddenly, "to be shut up in that and 
'way off in space." She thought she would not like it at all.
"They travel in space," Chris observed without taking his eyes from the ship. 
"But what if we could travel in time?"
Nan shivered. Travel in time—like the dreams about the inn?
"What are you going to do—with that?"
He made no pretense of not understanding her. "What should I do?"
"I told you. Get rid of it!"
Chris shook his head. "It hasn't hurt us any. Now has it?"
Nan blinked. She tried to answer yes, but she found that she could not. What if 
she had not had that memory of confounding Uncle Jasper when Pat pulled that 
trick on her? Perhaps she—No, she honestly did not know now what she might have 
done. It was that small feeling of triumph the other Nan had had when she 
outwitted the King's Men which had given her what Grandma would have called 
"backbone" enough to walk away from Marve and the others who had tried to trap 
her.
"My father—they're coming back," Chris broke into her own thoughts.
"I know."
Chris continued in his usual dogged fashion. "I always thought that Dad—Dad and 
I—" He was scowling as he added roughly, "I was a baby. You think of a lot of 
things when you're little that are never going to add up right, you know that? I 
wish the part—part about leading the dragoons past the trap had been real—at 
least that Chris did something!"
"It will work out." Nan tried to make her voice sound confident. But she was 
afraid that she failed, for Chris only hunched a shoulder at her and she 
realized he had shut her out again.



They had dinner; then Aunt Elizabeth suggested a movie special on TV. This time 
Chris sat cross-legged on the floor to watch, too. The film was interesting. Nan 
lost all her doubts and troubles as she let herself be absorbed by the story.
Sunday was church again, and in the afternoon two friends of Aunt Elizabeth's 
came visiting. Nan excused herself to read in her room, and Chris disappeared 
even earlier. But she found herself getting out paper to write to Grandma. The 
most exciting parts of her life—the inn dreams and Marve's invitation—she could 
not tell. But she tried to make the rest sound as if she were having just as 
good a time as Grandma, with no regrets for vanished Elmsport. And she did not 
mention either the postcard from her mother or what Grandma had said about them 
being closer together.
Monday she walked to school with Chris again, and he was in a hurry, for once. 
Nor did he talk to her any. There was something wrong—Nan could feel it like a 
heavy cloud hanging right over the two of them. She looked into the yard of the 
Academy as Chris, not even saying so long, left her. At least those boys were 
not in sight.
She faced another day of being by herself. But before she left Miss Crabbit's 
room in the afternoon, she was called to the desk.
"Ordinarily"—Miss Crabbit always spoke abruptly as if she needed to keep any 
listeners in line and by now Nan was used to it—"I would not consider this at 
all. You are behind in three subjects, Nan. However, you have shown a desire to 
catch up. If you wish, you can obtain the necessary help to do so. Cathy Schmitz 
will help you—if you can stay an extra half hour in the library each afternoon. 
You will have to discuss this with your aunt and let me know as soon as 
possible."
"Yes, Miss Crabbit," Nan answered.
Cathy Schmitz? She was the big girl who sat in the last seat of the second row. 
At the moment Nan could recall nothing more about her than that. And she did not 
like the idea of anyone helping her—she had always been an honor student in 
Elmsport. But she knew that she was not keeping up with the class, and she 
remembered Martha's warning: if you could not keep up, you got put back a class. 
She was not going to have that happen if she could help it.
Nan thought about Cathy as she stood before her locker, pulling out her coat. 
Then she was bumped so hard she was nearly pushed into the half-open locker. She 
glanced around angrily to see Pat smiling her sly smile, Marve tossing her hair, 
Karen a little behind her leader.
"What did the old Crab want to tell you?" Marve asked.
"That I wasn't keeping up with the class," Nan said bluntly.
"She'll put you back a grade then." There was satisfaction in Pat's smile.
"What did you do—about that thing?" Karen shot her question as if she must have 
an answer, but she was not looking at Nan. Rather her eyes darted from side to 
side as if to make sure that no one else heard her.
Again Nan knew exactly what was meant. "I gave it back." She saw no reason to 
explain how she had given it back.
"And they took it—without questions?" It was plain Pat did not believe her in 
the least.
But Marve had been watching her closely, and now she spoke before Nan could 
answer, "You did, didn't you? But you must have been clever about it—or we would 
have heard—"
"I didn't tell about you." Nan pulled on her coat.
"It was some kind of a trick," Pat protested.
Marve laughed. "If it was, she's nearly as good as you are, Pat. Maybe you're 
jealous. Listen here, Nan, we don't want any trouble. If you let us alone, we'll 
let you alone. We just thought you could take a joke—it's plain you can't." 
Marve laughed again scornfully. "You're just so square we can count your 
corners. But if you try to make any trouble"—her eyes were not smiling even if 
her mouth was—"you'll learn what trouble can be!"
She swung around and walked away, Karen giving a little skip to match step with 
her, Pat a bit behind.
Nan's hands shook a little as she pulled tight her belt. There had been such 
menace in Marve's voice that she felt as if the other girl had slapped her in 
the face. And she still shook as she started the walk home.
It gave her a feeling of relief when she came in sight of the Academy gate and 
saw before her a hunch-shouldered figure, stalking along the pavement. She could 
recognize Chris anywhere, and he was alone. Nan hurried her pace to catch up 
with him.



Chris was only half aware that he was safely out on the street—alone. It had 
been so easy that he was suspicious. Usually things never worked for him without 
one hitch or another. But Canfield had taken the carbon, looked down the list of 
questions, and had accepted it as the real thing. Chris sniffled experimentally. 
He would have the flu, he decided; just enough to put him out of school for the 
rest of the week. There was no sense in going in tomorrow when Canfield and the 
others would discover just what he had done.
A lot could happen in a week, Chris thought wistfully. Perhaps even Dad would 
think about the letters he had sent saying how he hated the Academy and had 
decided he would prefer to change to the school where Nan went. It could not be 
any worse than halls haunted by people like Canfield.
Yes, he would play sick for at least a week. A lot of good steady sniffling and 
some coughs—He tried a couple now experimentally and thought they sounded quite 
promising.
"Chris!"
He half choked on another cough. Her again. But he stopped as she came running 
toward him.
"You're late," he said.
"The Crab kept me after." She would say nothing about Marve and the threat. "I'm 
behind, coming in the middle of the term. She says I have to have special 
study.—I'm to tell Aunt Elizabeth."
"Who's going to tutor you?" Chris asked suspiciously. He had no idea of being 
any part of a cram-Nan action.
"Some girl in my room. I don't know her. But, Chris"—Nan swept from her own 
concerns to what she remembered from that morning—"is everything all right with 
you?"
"Got a cold coming"—Chris decided to try out his best croak on her—"probably 
have to stay out for a while. I get awful colds. You better get away from me."
He widened the space between them as they walked to over two feet and coughed 
whenever he remembered all the rest of the way back to the apartment.
When they came in, Aunt Elizabeth had just put down the phone. She turned 
quickly to see them. There was an odd, almost stunned expression on her face.
"Nan, you go on out and get your cocoa. Chris, come here. I want to talk to 
you."
Reluctantly Nan went on. The conviction that the trouble she had sensed all day 
had at last hit was strong. But Chris's usual blank expression did not change as 
he followed his aunt into the living room.
"Chris"—she spoke first—"that was one of your teachers, a Mr. Battersley, on the 
phone. He had the most—the most unbelievable accusation to make. He said that 
two of the boys in his second class had a copy of an examination paper which 
they swear they bought from you. They had been caught by another teacher making 
more copies of it in study hall to pass around.
"Oddly enough only two of the questions were right, ones he does intend to use 
in an examination tomorrow. But the paper was a typed carbon and does resemble 
those he uses himself when he makes up his tests. He says these boys have a very 
straight story that they got it from you, and they each paid you five dollars 
for it.
"I cannot believe that you would do such a thing, Chris." She was staring at 
him, Chris thought, as if he had suddenly grown horns and a tail. So he had been 
too smart after all. Canfield or one of them had been caught, and they had a 
story all ready to cover that chance.
Chris slid his wallet out of his pocket. He flipped it open before Aunt 
Elizabeth. "I have two dollars of my allowance," he said stolidly. "You can look 
if you like."
"I don't need to look, Chris. I know such a story is not true. But Mr. 
Battersley says I must come in with you tomorrow and get this straightened out."
"My word," Chris said slowly, "against how many of them? You think anyone is 
going to believe me? Canfield—he—" But there was no use going into all that. 
Aunt Elizabeth would never understand that Canfield was one of the VIP's as far 
as the Academy was concerned, and Chris Fitton exactly nothing at all.
"It is the truth, Chris. And you've got to tell it."
"All right, I'm not guilty. And much good it's going to do me!" he flung at her 
before he bolted back to his own quarters.
His heart was beating fast as he stood behind the door he had just slammed shut. 
So he was not clever after all, and Canfield had messed him up but good. He 
didn't see how he was going to get out of this. All the talking in the world was 
not going to do any good.



Hue and Cry
Chris was afraid that Aunt Elizabeth would keep going on about what had 
happened. But though she looked at him now and then, a faint frown between her 
eyes, she said nothing before Nan. So minute by minute Chris relaxed a little. 
He was still very sure that he had not a single chance of being believed 
tomorrow, but he had tonight. Though he did go to his room early. Nan had been 
watching him, too. He tried to shove her out of mind. There was nobody he could 
depend upon, not even himself.
Unless—
He did not know what very small hope sent him to the drawer, made him bring out 
the inn. He wished he really could go back in time. Even if it were to the time 
when the Excisemen and smugglers were fighting. Just at this moment that seemed 
better than what faced him now.
Slowly he set the Red Hart down on the bedside table. It rested on the letter 
from Dad, which he had not even opened. He looked down at that—what was the use? 
There could be nothing in that envelope worth the reading. Reluctantly he got 
into bed.



Someone was shouting so loudly the noise rang in his ears. And he was no longer 
in bed. There was cold, with snow, and bushes around where he crouched. Part of 
the battle with the smugglers? But he had been at the inn then—
He saw a flare of fire shooting up. The inn was afire!
Chris pushed forward. The flames drove away the night shadows. No, that was not 
the inn he saw across a scrap of field. It was a big barn, and what blazed 
beside it was a haystack. Men were milling around throwing buckets of water on 
the flames and then falling back as the fire, as if to spite them, only leaped 
up higher. There were other noises, and some men were coming out of the barn 
leading cows. One had a big horse with its head muffled up in a coat.
He got to his feet. Were the smugglers doing this? Why?
"Chris Fitton!"
His name hissed out of the shadows made him half turn. There was another boy 
standing so that the flickering of the fire showed him a little but not enough 
for Chris to see his face.
"Who are you?" Suddenly it was very important that he know that.
His only answer was a laugh as the boy slipped back into the shadows. However, 
it seemed as if some door in his head had opened.
He was Chris Fitton right enough, and his father was landlord of the Red Hart. 
As to what he was doing here—he knew that, too, now. He had been waiting for 
Sampson Dykes. And if his father knew about his being with Dykes! Chris drew a 
deep breath. Right now he should be back in bed at the inn, and the sooner he 
was there, the better.
Shuffling through the brush, he hurried toward the dim woods path. That was the 
Manor farm he had seen afire. In this weather they could not get enough water 
out of the pond to wet it down. To judge by the shouting, half the village was 
already there.
Chris hesitated. If they kept that up, his father and the ostler Jack and the 
stableboys would be coming. He might make the wrong choice going back. But he 
still padded toward the innyard. Yes, he had been right in his guess; there was 
the flare of a lantern, men tumbling out of the stable quarters. Chris just 
managed to join them.
"The Manor farm," someone was yelling. "It's afire!"
He saw his father move swiftly out the door. "Buckets, lads," he called as he 
came. "And bring horse blankets. We can wet them with snow and beat out the 
flames—"
Chris snatched up a strong-smelling blanket from within the stable, joining with 
the force Ira Fitton led back along the woods trail.
They plunged into the fight around the fire, but it was too late to save the 
barn. Rather they had to fight for the rest of the outbuildings and even the 
house.
"Set it was!" A man with a smoke-blackened face, who spoke with Henry Nevison's 
voice, declared hoarsely. "Wickedness it was. Set by some murderin' rogue as 
would burn us all in our beds!"
The flames were dying. They had at last won the battle. Chris tried not to 
breathe in the thick smoke.
"It's a mercy, Master, as how we got the horses out. They were so frightened."
"The poor beasts." Nevison commented. "I tell you it was set. And him who had 
the doing of it, do I lay my two hands on him, he'll wish he'd never been born. 
Not that it'll do him any good!"
Ira Fitton, nearly as smoke-blackened as the farmer, spoke first. "What makes 
you think it was set, Henry?"
"How else could it be? The lads know as how there is to be no lanterns ever in 
there. Plain, I made it to them. And a haystack, it don't burst into fire by 
itself in the middle of winter! You know well, Ira, there be those who have a 
spite against the Squire. He has been hard on men since he sits as Justice. But 
no man but a devil would turn spite back on poor dumb beasts. If Mick here 
hadn't got him a bellyache as kept him awake"—the farmer nodded to one of the 
grimy figures behind him—"we'd have lost all the beasts into the bargain. 
Murder, I calls it, even if they say as how they is only dumb animals. And how 
I'm to shelter them," he added, "in this cruel weather now—"
"Bring them to the inn. There's room and enough. We don't get many travelers in 
winter, Henry."
"What's to do here?"
The man who rode into the crowd, his horse, alarmed by the stink of the burned 
hay, fighting his control, was older than Chris's father. He had a narrow, 
long-nosed face with a tight, ill-tempered mouth slashing across it. Squire 
Mallory. Instinctively Chris drew into the shadows. Master Nevison was sure that 
the fire had been set, and it was true that the Squire had a dark hate for 
poachers. He'd sent Sampson's older brother off to be like a slave in Australia 
for taking a couple of hares when his family was nigh to starving 'cause the 
Squire had turned them out of their cottage and given it to some gamekeeper he 
brought from the north.
Had Sampson fired the hay? Chris denied that thought as soon as it came to life 
in his mind. Sam hated them as hurt animals. He would never have let the farm 
creatures be caught in any fire. There were other men and boys, too, that had it 
in for Squire Mallory, that hated him enough to burn up his home farm. Take Jem 
Catsby, for instance, though Jem had gone away two days ago, saying as how he 
had nothing here, so he might as well go up to London and see what kind of a 
fortune he could make. Father had said he was a fool; you found worse in London 
than you did right here.
Henry Nevison was repeating his accusation and that mean mouth Squire wore 
twisted a little more. "This is a hanging matter!" he snapped. "And we'll see 
that someone swings for it."
Chris shivered. Squire meant exactly what he said. He would see as how someone 
swung for what happened tonight. The boy moved back farther into the shadows. No 
use letting Squire sight him, not since last week when he had turned white with 
rage when he caught Miss Nan talking to Chris and asking about the fox pup the 
boy had raised. To Squire, Chris was not much better than dirt, and no one as 
his daughter should speak to. Chris had seen even Miss Nan was afraid when 
Squire sent her home.
"You, Fitton!" Squire pushed his horse near the innkeeper. "What are you and 
those hangdogs you hire doing here?" He swung his riding crop back and forth in 
one hand as if he itched to use it, and not on a horse either.
"We came to help." Father was calm. He stared Squire back as straight as Squire 
eyed him. Squire did not like the fact that the inn was free of his owning, that 
it belonged to the Fittons and he could not say what they must do.
"And now," Father continued, "since our services are no longer needed, we'll 
go."
Chris saw the shamed look on Henry Nevison's face. But the farmer dared not 
speak up; it was as much as his living was worth, seeing as how he was Squire's 
man.
It was very quiet as Ira Fitton and his people turned their backs on the rest. 
They did not take the woods trail either, but plodded along the road, mindful 
not to set foot off that in Squire's seeing.
Jack's voice came out of the dark. "That one will make mischief, Master."
"If he can. Now listen, all of you." There was a stern note in Ira Fitton's 
voice. "It may be right, as Henry Nevison has said, that the fire was set. But 
in times when such things are believed, men are apt to seize on the first person 
and accuse him—guilty or not. You will keep your tongues between your teeth on 
this matter, and you'll also keep off Mallory land. We'll give him no chance to 
point a finger in our direction."
"That's well said, Master. The Squire, he takes it unkindly that he ain't master 
at the Red Hart as he is in the village. He'd like as not point that finger just 
as you said," Jack agreed; and there was a mutter from the stableboys and the 
tapman in a chorus of approval.
"So you will give him no chance," Ira Fitton returned. "And you'll do no talking 
with any in the village. I'll not see any innocent man swing if I can help it, 
so say nothing because if you do any guessing aloud, it may put someone's neck 
into danger—guilty or not."
Now he reached out a hand to close firmly about Chris's upper arm in a grip the 
boy could not throw off even if he tried. There was more his father would say, 
he guessed uncomfortably, but not before these others. It must have to do with 
Sam—He stumped through the snow, that grip never releasing him, wondering what 
he could answer if his father had lighted upon the truth and knew of his 
slipping out to follow Sam. There was nothing he could offer in defense; he had 
been warned enough about trespassing on Mallory land and had seen in his meeting 
with Miss Nan what could come of it. His father had accepted his explanation of 
that, but he would take very unkindly to any knowledge that Chris had 
accompanied a suspected poacher.
The men went to bed again in the loft over the stable, but Chris under his 
father's urging came, not into the friendliness of the kitchen, but beyond into 
the small room where Ira Fitton kept accounts and dealt out justice to those of 
his own household. The boy heard the click of a flint and then blinked at the 
blaze of a candle.
Ira Fitton sat down in his big armchair. His hair was dusted with gray along 
those sideburns which reached near to the angle of his jaw. And near his right 
eye was the pucker of scar gained at Waterloo. There was none of the good humor 
he usually showed in his dealings with Chris shining in his gray eyes now.
"You were out tonight"—he did not make that a question but a statement.
There was no lying to Sergeant Major Fitton, Retired. Chris had never tried. 
"Yes."
"Where did you go and why?"
"I went to the bushes by the farm hedge." But Chris could not add why he had 
gone. Father had no use for Sampson. He had said publicly that the whole Dykes 
family were rogues and the parish would be the better with them out of it.
Ira Fitton broke the silence between them. "It was Sampson, wasn't it? You went 
with him?"
Chris shook his head. "I didn't see him. He never came."
Sampson could not have set the fire; Chris would swear to that. And if no one 
knew that he was out that night—
His father leaned forward a little in the chair. "You little fool!" he exploded. 
"It needs only one man to have seen you sneaking around and tell the Squire—He'd 
have you sent to jail in Rye before you took a deep breath. And there'll be 
plenty to curry favor with him by swearing that you're the one. Do you 
understand me?"
Chris was too shaken to shape any words. He nodded.
"We had better hope that you weren't seen," his father continued.
Suddenly Chris remembered that shadow who had called his name. "Maybe," he 
croaked, "there was someone."
"Who?" His father shot that at him as he might have shot one of the big pistols 
he had brought back from the war.
"I don't know." Hurriedly he told of that figure.
His father slapped his open hand down on the table with a noise that made Chris 
blink. "There's trouble right before us. I've got to think. As for you—get you 
up to your room and stay there until I send for you."
Chris scuttled out, fear nosing at his heels as closely as a hound might do.



Nan stood at the window, the thickest and warmest of her shawls about her 
shoulders. But she was shivering more with excitement than with cold as she 
watched that distant flare of flames which now died away. Had the farm all 
burned up?
She had been wakened by a heavy pounding on the door. Liz, who had been in the 
truckle bed near her, had gone slip-slopping off in her loose slippers, to 
return with the tidings that it was Dolph Nevison come up with the news that 
there was a fire at the home farm and there was a need for men to fight it. Nan 
had pulled out of the big bed and gone to the window to see.
Later her father had pounded by on his horse, heading down the farm lane. The 
men must have gone the shorter way across the fields. Her father had only been a 
black shape in the night, but she could imagine his fury.
Only too well did Nan know how much the Mallorys were disliked. Her father might 
set himself up as Squire, but everyone knew that he had bought the Manor and the 
lands at a forced sale, because the last owner had broken his neck out hunting 
and left a widow and two children without a guinea to their purse. And if he had 
bought his way in here, that did not mean that the villagers, the farmers, the 
few gentry families hereabouts, accepted him.
She let the curtain fall back into place. Liz had lighted one candle and left it 
on the chest when she had gone off again into the kitchen to lend a hand in 
getting hot drinks ready for the men when they returned. Nan longed to slip down 
there, too, to hear what had really happened. Fear of her father kept her where 
she was.
He would not have her gossiping with the servants, as he said. She cringed now 
at the memory of the whipping he had given her after she had gone to see the fox 
cub that boy at the inn had tamed. Father hated the inn people because he could 
not rule them. Master Fitton held the inn from his father and his grandfather 
before him. It was one of the tales of the neighborhood which she had heard from 
Liz.
It all had to do with the smugglers who used to be so important here before 
their leader Havers was killed—right down in the courtyard of the inn. There had 
been a Lieutenant Fitton, a wounded officer of the Excisemen, whom Havers had 
come there to hunt. But the innkeeper was a woman, and she would not give up the 
wounded man. There had been a regular battle between the smugglers and some 
dragoons the Exciseman's son had brought in. Afterward the Lieutenant had been 
judged unfit for duty because of his wound, and he had married the innkeeper and 
stayed on. So the inn was not part of the village as her own father wished, but 
remained the Fittons's.
Father had made his money in shipping, and why he had wanted this particular 
manor, so far from the sea, Nan did not know. But once he had it, he ruled with 
a heavy hand. Old Aunt Margaret never interfered or spoke up for anyone, and she 
seemed afraid of Father. Nan had soon learned that you had to obey orders or get 
his riding whip laid about you. Her shoulders twitched.
She heard a stir below, the bang of a door, the tramp of feet, and the growl of 
her father's voice, all coming through the crack of the door Liz had left a 
little open. Dared she go down and see—hear what had happened?
That note in her father's voice was warning enough. He would not take kindly to 
her appearance. She must hold to her patience and wait until Liz came back and 
she could question her.
When the maid appeared, she was plainly full of news. " 'Twas set, Squire says," 
she burst out before she was hardly through the door. " 'Twas a wicked thing to 
do; they got the poor beasts out, but only just. And didn't Mick feel sick in 
the night they might have all burned, men and beasts together! Right wicked it 
was—and Squire says as how the law will make it a hanging matter, too!"
"But who would do such a thing?"
"Well might you ask, miss." Liz looked at her slyly, and Nan knew what the maid 
was thinking. Her father had more enemies hereabouts than one could total up on 
the fingers of both hands.
She flushed. It was horrible to be hated, to think someone was so mad as to 
threaten the lives of men and animals by cruel fire just because he hated so 
blackly.
"The Squire, he has offered ten guineas—he said it to all who were there—for the 
name of him as did it. And ten guineas—that is a mighty sum, miss. There'll be 
men as will come with news hoping to lay hand on that."
"But if no one was seen," Nan began.
"Miss, it was a dark night. Anyone can swear he saw something, and who can say 
he be right or wrong?"
Nan drew a deep breath. She understood Liz's meaning. If anyone in the village 
had a spite for another, this would be the time to work that off and get a small 
fortune, or what would seem a small fortune, in return.
"There would have to be proof," she said with a confidence she did not feel. She 
knew her father's hard angers. Would he ask for much in the way of proof? And 
any man desperate or vile enough to betray another would make his story as 
strong as possible.
"I know who Squire wants." Liz shot another of those sly, unpleasant glances at 
her. "Master Fitton, he came with his men to help put out the fire at the farm. 
Squire ordered him away."
Nan sat down on the edge of the bed. She felt very cold inside. Yes, above all, 
her father would relish hanging such a crime on someone connected with the inn. 
She did not know the law, but perhaps if her father could prove that, he might 
in turn somehow get the inn itself.
"That is only suspicion, Liz," she returned as stoutly as she could. "No one 
must be named without proof. You know that Master Fitton would no more burn out 
a neighbor than he would set fire to his own place."
"Maybe not him, miss. But he ain't the only man—or boy—at the Red Hart."
Nan got back into bed. The sheets were very chilly about her. She knew what Liz 
was suggesting. But that was outright folly! Chris Fitton would not set fire to 
the home farm, just because her father had once ordered him off Manor land and 
tried to lash him. Chris had dodged that blow—his face had gone very white under 
the tan, and his eyes had seemed to glitter. He had been wild with anger then, 
Nan knew that, even if he had said nothing, simply turned and stalked away.
Remembering the whole scene now, she thought that his silent withdrawal had fed 
her father's rage even more. But she must not say anything which might point up 
Liz's suggestion. Of course, no matter how much her father might wish to find 
him guilty, Chris Fitton was not.
But she could not go back to sleep, even though she lay still and breathed 
evenly, hoping Liz would be fooled. Instead she tried to think of what her 
father might do. Would he really bribe someone to swear it was Chris or someone 
else from the inn? If so, was there anything she could do? Over and over again, 
until her head began to ache, her thoughts followed the same pattern.



Chris pulled off his clothing and rolled into bed. With no hot brick at the 
foot, it was beastly cold. But worse than the icy sheets around his shivering 
body was what his father had pointed out and his own memory of that figure who 
had hailed him from the dark. He tried vainly to remember the voice, and so put 
a name to the lurker. But he could not. The fact that someone knew he had been 
in the bushes watching the fire remained a threat he would have to live with—
He dozed twice that night, awaking each time with a start of terror from a 
nightmare. And he was only too happy to have Peter, the potboy, knock on his 
door in the first light to say his father wanted him. Chris, after he had 
dressed, splashed icy water on his face, pulled a comb raggedly through his 
hair, and clattered down the back stairs.
The warmth and the food smells in the kitchen were comforting, but he had to 
leave those, go on to the room where he had fronted Sergeant Major Fitton the 
night before. At his father's answer to his knock Chris braced himself to enter.
There was a paper lying on the table. Even upside down, Chris could read the 
bold outline of the top line of three words: hue and cry. This was the sheet 
that the Bow Street magistrates sent out to all inns and tollgates in the 
country, bearing a list of crimes and descriptions of wanted men. His father 
always posted it in the taproom and read the facts aloud to all those servants 
who could not spell them out or to villagers who were ignorant of their letters.
Ira Fitton still wore a crumpled shirt with an ash streak across one sleeve, and 
he looked very tired. He had another paper folded up and sealed with the dark 
wax he kept for special occasions. With the tip of the quill pen he held, he 
pointed Chris to one of the stools.
"The mail will be through in a half hour if they are making regular time. I 
shall give this to Worcester, who owes me a favor. With ordinary luck it will 
reach London by tomorrow afternoon. Worcester will see it gets to Bow Street, to 
Harry Hawkins—"
Harry Hawkins—Father had served with him in the Peninsula under the Duke and 
later they had been together at Waterloo. Afterward, Harry had gone into the Bow 
Street runners, was one of those thief-takers who were noted for good service.
"I may be crying to arms when there is no attack," Ira Fitton continued. "But 
given Mallory's temperament and the fact that you were on his land last night, 
and apparently seen, I think it wise to take my own steps for your protection. 
Private people can hire the runners when it is a criminal matter. I am asking 
Harry down to have a look into this. We must hope that he is not otherwise busy 
and will come."
"You think—" Chris glanced from his father's frowning face to his own dirty 
hands, still carrying the marks of last night's struggle to beat out the racing 
flames.
"I think that you have been a fool and that you may be in bad trouble. News came 
with Tomkins this morning—he made sure I would hear it, so I know that suspicion 
is already pointed this way—Mallory has offered ten guineas for information 
leading to the arrest of the one who fired the rick and so destroyed the barn."
Chris swallowed. Ten guineas—that was a fortune! To anyone in the village, it 
would be a temptation.
"Now"—his father leaned forward a little—"suppose you tell me more about this 
shadow who called you by name."
"I have been trying most of the night to remember. It was a boy, I am sure. But 
I did not see his face."
"Sampson Dykes?"
Chris shook his head. "No, I know Sampson. That wasn't his voice."
"Have you had dealings with any of the village boys who might want to wish you 
harm?"
Again Chris shook his head. He did not go around looking for fights. There were 
some, he knew, who envied him living in the inn, even the fact that he went to 
Mr. Preston, the Vicar, twice a week for schooling. But no one had ever shown 
him active ill will.
"It can well be," his father continued, "that he whom you saw was the actual one 
who did the firing. As for trying to find one of those hereabouts who hates the 
Squire more than another, that is going to be a lengthy task. It is more likely 
that someone will give in a name, either for the money or to save his own neck. 
And the Squire, being a Justice, can then pronounce his own sentence forthwith."
Chris clasped his hands together more tightly so that his father would not see 
how they shook. He could well believe it would all happen just as his father 
said and that he might well be the one named.
"For the moment"—his father arose, the folded and sealed letter in his hand—"we 
shall do nothing. You will not talk of this matter, nor of that boy, to anyone. 
You will act as you always do, nor will you answer any questions. Do you 
understand?"
Chris agreed in a low voice.



Nan pushed her needle through the cloth stretched on the embroidery frame. At 
the moment she had no governess, so there were no lessons in painting or polite 
manners or the other things a "lady" must learn. She liked reading, but the 
books left in the big library, after her father had bought both the house and 
most of its furnishings, were not very interesting. Many were in Latin, or were 
volumes of sermons as dry as the dust which lay upon them. She was bored through 
the long days with just needlework and Aunt Margaret's thin voice, which always 
sounded near a whine, going on and on about family connections who were dead 
long before Nan was born.
Aunt Margaret was one of Mother's family, and really she was Nan's great-aunt—a 
shriveled-up little wisp of a woman who now had only the importance of her own 
birth to give her any pride. She had early striven to impress upon Nan that her 
mother was a Ruthven and had given up much to marry a mere Mallory, wealthy 
though he might be. Nevertheless, as Nan had noted, Aunt Margaret was quick to 
"yes" her father whenever chance threw them together; which was not too often, 
since Squire Mallory resented that he did not have a son and made it very clear 
that Nan was not satisfactory as a substitute.
"Such a pother." Aunt Margaret was sorting embroidery silks, holding one skein 
against another very close to her eyes. "Depend upon it, the criminal will be 
speeedily found. Any of these villagers will snatch at gold—"
"What," asked Nan, "if someone says the wrong name then just to get the money 
Father offered?"
Aunt Margaret sniffed. "It is none of your affair, miss, what is done. It was a 
murderous thing, for men were asleep there and beasts. This blue is a sad match. 
I should not have sent Mary to buy it; that girl has no true sense of color at 
all."
Nan took three stitches. She had become tolerably good at this work and admitted 
that Aunt Margaret, for all her stupid stories and talkativeness, was a good 
teacher. They now had ahead of them the project of recovering all the seats of 
the small chairs in the parlor. Nan sighed to herself, just thinking about what 
that would mean in years of work.
"Your father"—Aunt Margaret had set the offending skein of blue to one side—"has 
sent for Hal Chickett's hound. They will cast around for a trail."
"I don't see how they can. Near everyone from the village was there," Nan 
pointed out, "so how can the dog sniff out the one who was guilty from all the 
rest?"
"Your father seems to have some information he has not spread abroad. Now this 
rose is good for shading, but the other is too faint a color; it will look 
sun-streaked before it really is. Mind how you stitch, girl." She snapped her 
thimble-tipped finger down on the edge of the frame sharply. "This is too fine a 
stuff to have to pick out ill-set lines!"
"Yes, Aunt Margaret." Nan made herself answer that meekly and sweetly. She 
longed to know what made her father think he could sort out one trail from all 
those around the farm. And if so, be sure that trail was the right one?
The day wore on dully. They stitched; they had a small lunch in the morning 
room. Then Aunt Margaret retired to nap, and Nan wandered into the library to 
hunt for a book. It was a gray day, and the shadows were almost as thick as at 
evening. Outside the window sounded the soft hiss of falling snow. Nan watched 
it. That would certainly spoil her father's plan of using the hound. And she 
found she was glad.
No, Nan told herself in horror, it was not that she wanted the wicked person to 
escape. But her trust in her father's judgment was small; she was sure he would 
be only too pleased to fasten the crime on someone whom he already disliked, if 
he had only a fraction of evidence to guide him.
She crept behind one of the long red brocade curtains, so sun-faded and full of 
ancient dust that even the vigorous actions of the maids Aunt Margaret spurred 
on could never clean them completely. The wall here was part of the oldest 
section of the house and very thick, so that the window was in a recess and 
there was a broad seat for an inner sill. Nan knelt on it to watch the snow 
coming down, covering the tracks on the drive without. It was cold, but she had 
brought her woolen shawl, which she drew more closely about her.
A sound from the room startled her. She did not move when she heard her father's 
voice raised in that tight tone he used when greatly angered.
"In here, you rogue! And do not think to deceive me. I know very well your mangy 
stock and that your brother has uttered threats against me. Had I proof of his 
ill-doing, he would be wearing chains in Rye jail long since. And there would be 
no mercy to send him overseas, either."
Nan squirmed around on the window seat. She inspected the length of the curtain 
folds before her and sighted what she had hoped might be there—a slit where the 
old cloth had given away and Aunt Margaret had not yet darned a mend. Using her 
fingers very carefully, she spread that slit so she could see a portion of the 
room.
Her father stood on the hearth, still wearing his topcoat and hat. One hand 
swung his whip, so that the lash caught against one of the fire irons with a 
menacing and threatening sound.
Before him cowered a ragged boy, a piece of sacking cobbled around him for a 
coat. His hair stood out above his head in a matted thatch, but Nan could not 
see his face clearly, only his chilblained hands, near blue with cold, and his 
feet wrapped in sacking from the top of which sprouted wisps of the straw he had 
used to stuff about his feet.
"Now"—her father leaned forward, his face sharply eager, as if he were on the 
brink of learning something that would please him greatly—"now, tell the truth, 
fellow!"
"It be the truth, Squire—"
Nan started. She might not have recognized the ill-clad boy, but she knew the 
voice. It was Tim Dykes, whose oldest brother had been transported for poaching. 
Was he the one—? But her father did not act as if he had his prey to hand, 
rather as if he expected some information of value.
"Very well, give me the truth, fellow, and I'll keep my part of the bargain. Ten 
golden boys—" Squire Mallory reached into an inner pocket and brought out a 
netted purse. He shook it so there was no mistaking the metallic chime of what 
lay inside. "Ten golden boys for the truth!"

"I did see 'im, Squire. He be a-hid in the bush like, watchin' the fire. Me, I 
came up when I heard the shoutin' and all. There he was. No mistakin' 'im—I saw 
him clear—just a-hid and watchin'."
"And who was watching?"
"Him from the inn, Squire, him what thinks he's so big and all—'twas that Chris 
Fitton."
Squire Mallory laughed. "Watching my barn burn was he? And you didn't see him 
a-creeping back from lighting that fire now, did you?"
But it would seem Tim was not yet aware of the need to add to his story.
"No, Squire, 'twas already well burnin' when I comes. It just be him watchin'—"
"Tim, I want you to think well about it." Her father clinked the purse again. 
"Perhaps you saw more. Think well, boy, think well. Get you to the kitchen now. 
Cook will give you something to cover those ribs of yours. There will be some 
gentlemen here later, and I'll want you to tell your story to them. So you think 
some more about what you are going to say."
Tim scuttled out. Nan saw her father smile as he slipped the purse back in his 
pocket. Then he left also.
He would see that Tim added to his story. Nan knew that as well as if she had 
heard him urge the boy to do it. And if Tim swore falsely, Chris Fitton would be 
brought before the Justices. Maybe her father would not dare to sit in the 
sentencing, not when he was so closely involved. But he could impress both Sir 
William Lighten and Mr. Rowley Morris. When he mentioned the gentlemen to whom 
Tim was to tell his tale, Nan was sure that was whom he meant.
The Fittons must be warned. Nan moved from behind the curtain. There was no one 
in this house she dared to trust to send a message by; her father ruled with too 
heavy a hand. Which meant—she would have to go herself. There was the way 
through the woods which gave on the back of the inn. The snow was coming down, 
but not too deeply to shut her in as yet. She must move now if she ever was to 
go. Having made her decision, Nan went about carrying it out.
Cloaked and wearing the heaviest of her shoes, she slipped away from the house 
to cut across the garden, using the wall there to cover her going, even though 
that was not the shortest way. So she stumbled on into the woods path, clutching 
the folds of her cloak more tightly about her.
It got dark early when it snowed. Already, though the hour could not be more 
than midafternoon, the light was graying fast. She slipped and slid as she went, 
hurrying so she had a stitch of pain in her side, and she gasped for breath. 
Then the outer wall of the inn loomed before her, and Nan hesitated.
If she went on openly, rounding the side of the building to the front door, she 
could not miss being seen. And she did not doubt that news of her visit to the 
Red Hart would spread through the village, would eventually reach her father's 
ears. The snow was continuing to fall but not enough to hide her going.
She could, however, see no other way of getting in. After making as sure as she 
could that there was no one in sight, she flitted across to shelter under the 
arch of the front door. Luckily that was on the latch, and she could open it 
without knocking. But she was not sure about the interior as she had never been 
inside. Where could she find Master Fitton?
The hall she stepped into was hardly warmer than the world outside. Now she 
could hear voices as she crept along. To her right must lie the taproom, 
somewhere beyond that the kitchen. Both places would be dangerous for her. She 
eyed a short side hall, which opened from the foot of the flight of stairs, more 
impressive-looking even than those at the Manor, and wondered if she dared try 
any of the closed doors there.
Then she started back, almost ready to retreat to the outer world once more, as 
one of those doors opened and a man stepped into the dusky hall, carrying a 
candle in one hand. Nan blinked and knew him—fortune had aided her in this so 
far. It was Master Fitton himself.
She must have made some sound without realizing it, for his head turned quickly 
and then he strode toward her.
"What's to do—?" he began.
Nan scraped the hood of her cloak back from her head, so it no longer shadowed 
her face. On impulse she put her mittened hand up to her mouth, hoping he would 
understand her warning. He must have, for he glanced over his shoulder at once 
and then beckoned her forward into the room he had just quitted.
There was a fire on the hearth, and she reached out her hands to it. Now that 
she was here some of her courage seeped away; she felt shy. How could she tell 
this man what she feared her father planned?
"Miss Mallory." He spoke her name very quietly. "Why have you come here?"
Yes, he must think it very strange. She must tell him at once, or she would not 
be able to tell him at all. "My father—he has offered money, a great deal of 
money, for the name of the one who started the fire."
Ira Fitton nodded, but his face was so grim-set she nearly turned and ran from 
the room. With a last surge of mingled fear and courage, she gabbled out the 
rest:
"A boy—Tim Dykes—he came to my father. He says that he saw Chris, your son, in 
the bushes watching the fire. My father has sent for the others—Sir William 
Lighten and Mr. Morris. Tim is to tell his story to them. But—" She could not go 
on, for the rest was a guess, not the truth. How could she tell this 
stern-looking man that she believed her father would get Tim to lie? Her 
snow-dampened mittens fell to the floor, and she twisted her cold fingers 
together tightly.
"Tim Dykes," the inn-keeper repeated. "You are sure it was Tim Dykes and not 
Sampson?"
"Tim!" she repeated vehemently.
Now he was frowning but, Nan thought, not at her, but rather at some thought of 
his own. Then he looked at her again as if he was really seeing her.
"Miss Mallory, you have done a thing for which we shall be very grateful. 
Forewarned is forearmed. But by coming here—"
"It's all right," she said hurriedly. "I can go back. I don't think anyone will 
see me. And I must go alone, you see. Because—"
Again he seemed to understand without her having to put it into words. But he 
shook his head. "I will go with you to the end of the woods." He stooped and 
picked up her mittens, giving them back to her.
Though Nan longed to refuse, she guessed that he would not listen to any of her 
excuses. It seemed to her that she did not breathe freely again until she was 
safely indoors at the Manor, her damp cloak hidden in the depths of the wardrobe 
in her own chamber, with the boots pushed under it, and slippers on her cold 
feet. The snow was falling much faster now, drifting across the garden, already 
filling in, Nan hoped, her tracks there.



Chris had been seated for a longer time than he could reckon, his books before 
him, the task Mr. Preston had set him only half begun. He chewed the end of his 
quill pen and stared out the window where the snow was like a curtain. No one 
had been near him for what seemed a very long time. He had tried to act as 
always, though he was sure that rumor had made it plain there was some strain of 
feeling between his father and himself.
But his thoughts turned mostly to Sampson Dykes. Where had he been last night? 
He still could not accept the idea that Sam had set the fire. The Dykeses had 
had it very hard since the Squire turned them out. With Andrew gone, sent off in 
chains by the Squire, Sam had been left the eldest. Chris knew that Sam hated 
the Squire, but surely he had sense enough not to get himself into trouble and 
make things even worse for his mother.
If it were Tim Dykes now—Chris spat a small piece of feather from between his 
teeth. Tim was as unlike Sam as day from night. He thought Andrew a hero and had 
talked big about making the Squire pay. Chris squirmed uneasily. That had all 
been big talk—surely it had!
"Chris—"
The boy started. He had been so deep in thought he had never heard the opening 
door. "Sir?" He scrambled to his feet to face his father.
"What lies between you and Tim Dykes?"
It was almost as if he had been reading Chris's mind. The boy was so astounded 
that he spoke the truth without trying to shade it in the favor of the Dykeses.
"Nothing—much. He talks big because he hates the Squire—on account of Andrew. 
Sam says he always trailed after Andrew. I think, well, I think he takes it 
unkindly that Sam and I are friends."
Ira Fitton sat down on the edge of the table. "Unkindly enough that he would 
want to get you into trouble?"
Chris stared blankly at his father. "Why?"
"It has been reported to me, on very good authority, that Tim was up to the 
Manor and said that he saw you in the bushes watching the fire. We can perhaps 
believe that by the time he tells his story again something more will be added 
to it—enough to set you on the spot with a torch in your hand!"
"But I didn't—" Chris began and then gulped. He knew only too well what his 
father said was true, and now he was suddenly more afraid than he had ever been 
in his life.
"This snow is both for and against us"—Ira Fitton had crossed to the small-paned 
window—"I do not think either Sir William Lighten or Mr. Morris will stir abroad 
in the storm. But neither will Hawkins be able to get out of London. I greatly 
doubt we shall see any coaches for a day—maybe more."
"What—what do we do?" Chris asked in a small voice.
"We wait. There is nothing else to be done at present—except that our Jack is 
listening—carefully—to the village talk. He's my man more than just the groom 
when it comes to using his ears."
Chris laid down his tooth-mangled quill. Waiting was going to be very hard.
And it was. It was three days before a thin sun melted the road enough to let 
the coaches through. And for most of the minutes of those three days Chris 
waited tensely for Squire Mallory to put him under arrest. His father said very 
little, but twice Jack came stamping in and was closeted in his father's private 
room. What they talked about Chris did not know, but he felt there was nothing 
good or surely his father would tell him.
On the fourth day the London coach came squelching over the snow, and Chris made 
himself useful as ever, running errands, carrying the "house glass" of brandy to 
each of the four passengers who wanted only the warmth of the common room. That 
is, three of them did, but the fourth hailed his father and was borne off to the 
small parlor.
The coach had fresh teams and was off again, three passengers reluctantly taking 
seats, before Lucy the maid came to Chris with his father's order to join him.
He found the stranger sitting in his father's armchair, his booted feet 
stretched out to the fire. He was a burly man, lacking Ira Fitton's inches, but 
very wide of shoulder and thick through the chest. With his capped overcoat hung 
over the bench by the fire, he showed a blue coat with a yellow waistcoat, both 
of which looked pale against the ruddy color of his face where the jowls had a 
pricking of sandy beard.
"So this is the desperate character." He greeted Chris with a voice which echoed 
around the walls. Then he grinned and winked. Chris did not know just how to 
take him, though the man's heavy face held an expression of keen interest.
"Now, lad, I want the truth. No holding back, mind you. It's the truth I've got 
to have to work from. Why were you in the woods that night?"
Chris hesitated. That this was the runner Hawkins, he was now sure. But to tell 
the whole truth was going to bring Sampson into it—And let Squire Mallory get 
the hint of Sam's poaching and—
"When Henry Hawkins gives his word"—the man hitched forward a trifle in his 
chair—"then he means it, lad. Do you have knowledge of who set that fire and 
think to cover for him?"
"No." Chris was satisfied that he could answer that with the truth.
"Then if you know of some other wrong-doing as has not been spoken of, I shall 
shut my ears to that part of it—seeing as how I come on one case alone and that 
as a favor to the Sergeant Major here. Now I ask you again, What was you a-doing 
in the woods that night?"
"I went to meet someone—" Chris began carefully.
"That someone being another lad as has good reason to hate the Squire."
Chris stared.
"Jack has kept his ears open." His father spoke for the first time. "You went 
there to meet Sampson Dykes. But he did not come?"
Chris shook his head. "I heard the shouting, and I went to see what was 
happening—I was in the bushes by the hedge in the long field."
"And you did see someone else?"
Reluctantly Chris told his story: Sampson had not come; Sampson would not have 
fired the hayrick—that, he repeated over and over. Then he spoke of the voice 
from the shadow he could not identify.
"Now this Tim as says he saw you, he has something against you?"
"Well—" Once more Chris repeated what he had said to his father concerning Tim.
"And what sort of a lad might he be?"
This time Chris was firm in his head shake. "I—I don't know. He was so mad over 
what happened to Andrew, his brother Andrew. He and Sam were never ones to see 
things the same way. Sam, he wanted to get a job, be able to help his mother and 
the two little ones; he said talking about getting back at the Squire wouldn't 
do any good."
"And you believed him?"
Chris nodded vigorously.
"And what does Squire Mallory have against you?" Hawkins swung into another 
track.
"He doesn't like us here at the inn." Chris thought his father must certainly 
have told Hawkins that already. "And a little while ago Miss Nan—she heard I had 
a fox cub for a pet. She came riding down to see it. The Squire, he caught me 
talking to her 'bout it. He was fired up—swung his whip and tried to lay it 
across me. But I got out of his reach too quick."
Hawkins raised a finger and scratched the stubble on his jaw. "Sounds like a man 
with a strong temper, this Mallory."
"He's not even gentry," Chris burst out. "Just some cit who made a purseful and 
bought out Lady Mary when the old Squire took and died and left her with 
nothing. He wants to lord it over all of us."
"There are that kind," Hawkins remarked. "And powerful enemies they can make 
themselves, too, lad. Well, we'll see what we can discover as will stop his 
mouth when it comes to calling the law over you."
What Hawkins proceeded to do, Chris was not sure. He seemed to do nothing but 
sit in the taproom, listening to any who found their way up from the village for 
a pint. Being shut in by the snow had made men restless, and now that they could 
get around, they came into the inn for a bit of company.
But in midafternoon, there was a stir in the courtyard and a thundering knock at 
the door. Chris was taking a tray of newly washed tankards to the taproom when 
the door itself was flung open and Squire Mallory strode in, several men at his 
back, among them Nevison and his two sons.
The Squire pointed with his whip at Chris. "There's the rogue, right to hand. 
Lay him by the heels, now!"
Chris retreated until his back was against the wood of the hall paneling. But 
Dolph Nevison and Hal came at him, and before he could defend himself, they had 
caught his arms. The tray with the tankards crashed to the floor.
What followed was like the wildest of his nightmares. For the sound of the 
falling tankards brought out his father, and behind him Hawkins and the rest of 
those in the taproom. The Squire had a pistol, and he shouted that no one was 
going to rescue this rogue, that if any moved they could be lawfully taken as 
accomplices.
"Now that"—Hawkins did not raise his voice unduly, but the very force of it 
overrode the Squire's—"ain't exactly legal, sir. You ain't taking one as was 
caught in the act, you might say. So where is the warrant whereby you've entered 
this house?"
"Warrant!" Squire Mallory looked as if he would try either his pistol or his 
whip on the other. "We've had testimony sworn as to the nature of this 
gallows-meat and what he did."
From under his arm Hawkins produced a short baton, which glinted in the light 
from the open door behind. There was a gilt crown on the tip, and this he pushed 
toward the Squire for the latter's better seeing.
"I am the King's Man, out of Bow Street, called here to clear up this same 
case."
"Then why isn't this rogue under irons?"
"'Cause it ain't been established yet as how he's guilty, sir. Now was you to 
give me your evidence as you say you have—"
Mallory nodded to the door, and Nevison reached behind him dragging into the 
light the cowering Tim.
"An eyewitness," Mallory said. "Which is as good as any warrant."
"Well enough, sir, but let us all just have it out together—and not in this 
hall, if you please."
There was something about Hawkins that carried authority, sweeping even the 
unwilling Squire behind him on into the taproom. They had already lashed Chris's 
wrists together behind his back, and now the older of the Nevisons took him 
roughly by the shoulder and shoved him along.
If the Squire had thought to command the action within, he was mistaken, for 
Hawkins took control as if this sort of proceeding were common and he had done 
so many times before.
Chris was pushed down on a bench, the younger Nevison on guard, while the Squire 
took up position with his back to the fireplace, his eyes ever on the move 
between Ira Fitton and the Bow Street runner, as if he classed them both as his 
enemies in some duel now to begin. But Hawkins turned to Tim Dykes and in his 
rumble of a voice began slowly to ask questions as if it did not matter too 
much. Tim's name, his age, did he have a brother, and finally one which sent Tim 
silent. What was he doing abroad in the woods that night?
After a short pause Tim answered, "I heard all the ado and came runnin'—"
"Now, let's think on that." Hawkins caught him up. "As I have seen it, and I did 
me a bit of looking around earlier today, this, here"—he dipped the end of his 
baton in the nearest tankard of ale and drew a square to one side—"is the farm 
where the burning was. And here"—he drew another line—"is the lane what comes up 
from the village. Do I have it right?"
A chorus of those leaning forward to see the better assured him he did.
"Then here's the place where at young Chris was." He made a spot with a big ale 
drop. "Now you tell me where you were!" He swung suddenly on Tim.
Tim stared down at the table and then looked for a second at Hawkins before 
dropping his eyes. "I was comin' up from the village like everyone else," he 
said shrilly.
"But that you couldn't have been. Not if you saw Chris. There is a stand of 
orchard right here." Once more Hawkins printed a series of dots. "And you 
couldn't have seen him—not at night. Now could you, lad? Unless you was 
somewhere's else than that lane—and maybe with someone else—"
"No! I ain't—I weren't—I never was—" Tim looked from one face to another. "All 
right. Maybe I weren't in the lane, but I saw Chris! Want me to swear it 
certain, do you, that I do?"
"I'm not denying you might have seen Chris. And he ain't denied to me where he 
was. Also he heard you—You called his name out, didn't you?"
Tim looked hunted, seemed to shrink smaller. Hawkins leaned farther across the 
table and pointed his baton at him. "You ain't no match for Harry Hawkins, boy. 
I've tumbled men as would make you screech your lungs out just to look on. You 
was there; you called out Chris's name. But there was someone else—now wasn't 
there? Someone as your calling out that there way hid, getting Chris's attention 
so that other could creep away all quiet like. There—was—someone—else!" Hawkins 
said those last four words solemnly, like someone pronouncing sentence.
"I ain't—I ain't going to say—" Tim put up a last defense.
But Hawkins was shaking his head back and forth slowly. "You'll say, lad. You're 
going to tell me who it was who crept away while you kept Chris Fitton's 
attention. Now was it your brother?"
"Sam"—Tim half spat the name. "He ain't got the stomach for anything. He's as 
soft as rabbit fur, he is."
"And who might be hard where Sam is so soft? Might it be Jem Catsby now?"
Tim looked as if Hawkins had struck him across the face. "I ain't said it—I 
never did!" he half screamed.
"You just did, lad." Hawkins straightened up. "You just did, even if you didn't 
use the words yourself. You've been mighty close with Jem lately, there's plenty 
who marked that. And Jem, he takes off innocentlike, for London, he says. Then 
two nights later, there's a fire. Now who can suspect Jem, who has been hiding 
out nice and snug, with you to fetch and carry and play lookout for him? Then 
you come to lie away young Chris's life, and get you and Jem free—"
Tim's thin shoulders shook. "He told me—he said as how it would work fine. We'd 
get back at the Squire, and no one would know never—"
"There's always them as thinks they can outwit the law," Hawkins said. " 'Course 
they don't in the end. Well, sir"—he spoke now to the Squire—"you has your man, 
this Catsby. Though where he may be now, since he probably took to his heels 
before the storm, is another matter."
"You're Fitton's friend—" the Squire began. Hal Nevison reached down and sawed 
through the cords binding Chris. Hal's father looked at Ira Fitton. "Ira, I 
listened to—"
The innkeeper shook his head. "I know what moved you, Henry. Don't let it 
trouble you. It's all right now the truth is known. And it is known." He stared 
straight at the Squire.
Mallory's thin mouth worked as if he were cursing silently. Then he flung out of 
the room, the Nevisons following.
Hawkins looked at Tim. "It seems that they forgot you, lad. Now before they 
remember too much and maybe come a-looking to make it hot for you, best get the 
law on your side. You tell me all you know about this Catsby, and we'll see if 
we can't forget that you had too big a part in his Devil's work."
Chris leaned back against the wall; he felt weak and tired and so thankful that 
he could not find the words he knew he owed Hawkins and his father. He only knew 
that he was free of a burden he had been carrying.



8
"Your Word Against Theirs"
Chris opened his eyes. This time he was not surprised to see overhead the 
ceiling of the room in Aunt Elizabeth's apartment instead of the years-darkened 
wood of the inn. He did not move at first, just lay thinking of the scene from 
which he had come by some means he could never understand. The fear which had 
held him so strongly as he sat with bound hands and listened to Hawkins' careful 
questioning of Tim was gone.
But he had been left with a want to know more. What had happened to Tim? And had 
they ever caught Catsby? He thought mostly about Hawkins and about his 
father—the Ira Fitton of the inn, the father who had believed in him and had 
then moved to do the best he could for his son.
Chris could close his eyes and see that other's face as if Sergeant Major Fitton 
stood in this very room here and now. A queer sense of loss crept in to fill the 
emptiness which fear had left. In spite of all that had happened to him, had 
threatened him this time within the walls of the Red Hart, he longed to be back 
there.
"Chris!"
There had come a cautious tap at the door; his name was called in a voice hardly 
above a whisper. He wriggled out of bed. What did Nan want? It was very early 
yet; the light was gray.
"What is it?" His answering whisper sounded like a hiss.
"Chris—you are here then—"
Now what in the world did that mean? Chris opened the door a crack. Nan pushed 
it farther open, enough for her to slip in.
"You—you're all right?"
"Why shouldn't I be?"
"I thought—the Squire—he was going to take you. I heard him talking to the 
Nevisons. I didn't know what was going to happen!"
"You were there then? But I didn't see you, not this time!"
She held her robe closer about her as if she were cold, though the bedroom was 
so warm after the remembered ever-present chill of the inn that Chris felt 
nearly too hot.
"I was a Nan again, too, a different one though. Sometimes I wonder—Was I once 
all those Nans? This time I went down to the inn. I told your father about Tim, 
about what the Squire might try to do. My father wanted Tim to change his story; 
he offered him the money to say he saw you actually setting fire to the rick. 
What happened, Chris? Did Tim lie?"
"He didn't get a chance." Chris swept a pile of clothing off the chair and 
motioned Nan to sit down. "Hawkins fixed him, but good."
Nan listened so eagerly that Chris found himself describing the scene at the inn 
with more detail than he planned. When he ended with the departure of the 
Squire, she looked disappointed. "That was all?"
"Oh, Hawkins said something about Tim's helping with more facts and so making it 
easier for himself. But—it all seemed so easy, Nan, when Hawkins laid it out so 
they could see—drawing up the plan which proved Tim couldn't have been where he 
said he was, and finding out about Tim and Catsby being so close. Easy—when you 
know how to do it."
The happiness was gone from Chris's face now. He had that shut-in sullen look 
again.
"Chris," she ventured, "what's the matter? It came right in the dream, didn't 
it?"
"This isn't the dream," he returned flatly.
"You are in trouble."
At first he resented Nan's statement. It was no business of hers. Who was she? 
Then memory returned; there were a number of Nans now he could think of. There 
was the Nan who by a trick had helped him save Master Bowyer; there was the Nan 
who had led him to warn the dragoons; there was that last Nan—he had no doubt 
that she had done exactly as she had just now told him, carried the news of Tim 
to his father so both Ira Fitton and Harry Hawkins had been forewarned as to 
what weapon the Squire held. Then there was this Nan. When he looked directly at 
her, one face seemed to fit over another until they became the one he knew best.
"I'm in trouble." And because he could not see any way that he could fight this 
time, he told her of his attempt to outwit Canfield and what had come of it.
"So there are two questions which were the same." She sat up very straight in 
the chair, her hands folded in her lap. "But, Chris, if you had been selling the 
whole exam, the way they said, then all the questions would be the same, 
wouldn't they?"
"They can say I was doing it for money," he pointed out.
"There has to be some way you can prove it," she said hotly. On her face was the 
same look of determination he had seen two of those other Nans wearing. Her chin 
was up and her eyes were bright with beginning anger. Not against him, Chris 
realized with a small odd shock, but for him! Nan was ready to help.
"I don't know how."
"This Mr. Battersley, how well do you know him, Chris?"
"Not much better than I know any of them." For the first time he allowed a crack 
to open in his shell against the world. "I hate the place! Battersley's tough, 
but he's fair. And he knows his stuff. I got pretty good marks on my papers so 
far this term."
"And Canfield and the rest?"
"They aren't in my section. That's the point. I have that class before they do, 
so it'd be easy to slip along information about the exam."
"Then why go to all the bother of making up questions," Nan pointed out. "And 
the wrong questions?"
"They say it's for the money."
Nan considered the point. There must be some chink in Canfield's argument—there 
had to be. But it was not going to be as easy to find as the weak point in the 
Squire's accusation had been. That had been built on a lie, and one easily 
overturned by a man used to questioning liars and ready to expect some sort of 
cover-up.
"Can they prove you need money?"
Chris looked thoughtful. "I don't see how they can, but, of course, one can 
always use money. I showed Aunt Elizabeth my wallet. I've two dollars left from 
my allowance—that's all. But they can say I hid it somewhere."
"It's your word against theirs then—"
"That's just the point, you see. They're big—or at least Canfield is. He's 
captain of the soccer team, and his gang will back up what he tells them. I'm a 
loner—"
"You are you," Nan said quietly; and something in the way she looked at him made 
Chris feel queer, as if she believed he could do just about anything he wanted 
to—beginning with taking on the whole Academy. Except that was impossible, of 
course.
"I'd go to Mr. Battersley," she continued. "Your best argument is the fact that 
the exams don't agree. How many questions were there anyway, Chris?"
"Six. But—" He shook his head slowly. "I can't blab to the Batman that I was so 
afraid of being roughed up that I made all this up. It's the disgusting 
truth"—he made himself say that—"but it's one I'm not going to tell."
"Has anyone ever done this before—sold exams, I mean?" Nan was off now on 
another tack.
Chris shrugged. "I don't know. At least no one ever told me about it. I've only 
been there this one term anyway."
"It sounds to me," Nan said slowly, "as if this Canfield had an answer ready 
because he expected some trouble. Just like Pat—"
"Pat who?"
Nan gave him a quick, uncomfortable glance. And then made up her mind swiftly. 
Maybe if she showed him he was not the only one—She told her story of the 
"shopping" trip in a few sentences which did not spare her own ignorance.
"But you did it!" Chris nodded. "You got them off your back! Only I can't use 
your gimmick—it wouldn't work. This is not the same thing at all."
"I did it," Nan remembered, "because I thought about Uncle Jasper—and how I was 
able to trick him. Chris, you did things which were brave. You went for the 
dragoons, and you told the truth to the Bow Street runner so he was able to save 
you. There's got to be a way—"
"Those—I was dreaming!"
"I wonder." Nan got up from the chair and went to pick up the inn. For the first 
time she had no feeling of discomfort as she handled it. When she set it back on 
the night table, she brushed an envelope to the floor. Hurriedly she picked it 
up.
"That's mine!" Chris snatched it from her with some of his old hostility.
But Nan dared to answer him this time. "That's from your father—and you never 
even read it."
Chris's scowl was blacker than she had ever seen it. He twisted the envelope 
between his fingers as if he would tear it apart unopened. Then, with a defiant 
glance at her, he ripped it open and spread out the typewritten sheet it 
contained.
At least, thought Nan bleakly, he gets a letter; I get postcards. Just then she 
did not know whether she envied Chris or not.
"Chris—Nan—"
Aunt Elizabeth! Nan hurried to the door and peeped through the crack she allowed 
to open there. Aunt Elizabeth must be calling from the kitchen. Without a 
backyard look she went across to her own room and started hurriedly to dress.
Chris read the letter. So they were coming home—and Dad had a surprise he was 
sure would suit Chris. Well, Chris had had enough of Dad's surprises. He 
crumpled the page in one hand and glanced at the inn. For a moment he wished 
once more he was back there—with Sergeant Major Fitton, who perhaps did not go 
in for surprises but who was satisfyingly there when someone needed him.
He set about dressing. Nan had meant well, he would admit that, but nothing she 
had said was of very much help. He would have to go to the Academy with Aunt 
Elizabeth and face them all with only his own word. And to Chris at that moment 
that seemed of very little worth indeed.
Aunt Elizabeth made a lot of cheerful talk which he did not listen to through 
breakfast nor even in the taxi she had ordered. They were both to be dropped off 
at the Academy, and Nan was then to go on to school alone. Chris, remembering 
Nan's story of how she had confronted Pat and Marve, wriggled on the seat. But 
she had had a good out. He wished for a moment or two he had Harry Hawkins 
instead of Aunt Elizabeth here beside him, the comfort of that deep rolling 
voice in his ears instead of the light chatter which was so disturbing.
As they went into the Academy, he caught sight of Canfield up ahead. There was a 
man with him. Canfield's father? Were they going to drag everyone's family into 
this? Chris did not let himself turn and run as he wanted to, but the hopeless 
depression within him grew darker and darker.

It was not the Headmaster who sat in the office—though it was his office. Mr. 
Battersley occupied the chair behind the desk there, rising to greet both Aunt 
Elizabeth and Mr. Canfield, who wore an impatient expression.
Chris sat on the edge of the hard chair. He did not glance at Canfield. But he 
did meet the Batman's gaze and held it until the man looked over to where 
Canfield must be.
"I have been asked to conduct this meeting"—Mr. Battersley's dry, emotionless 
tone could cover anything; it was well known that you could not shake the 
Batman—"since it is in my class this matter began. I have had your story, 
Canfield—"
"It's perfectly plain what happened"—that was Mr. Canfield cutting in.
A single lift of the Batman's eyebrows seemed enough to dry up that fuming 
voice. "Fitton"—Chris looked stolidly back at the Batman—"I presume you have 
been told what this is all about."
"They say I sold the copies of the test."
"Not the test—a test," Mr. Battersley corrected. "There are two similar 
questions. The rest—I am interested by this, Fitton—where did you get the 
others? Oddly enough they are perfectly legitimate questions based on this 
semester's work. But they are not ones I considered using this time, nor have I 
used them in the past. I must believe that you yourself concocted them?" He made 
that a question instead of a statement.
"Yes," Chris answered with the flat truth.
"Enterprising of you. Now"—the Batman's gaze went to Canfield—"you have told me 
that Fitton approached you and offered to sell you a set of exam questions. 
Since your class record is anything but distinguished, you agreed to his 
proposition. He supplied you with a carbon which you proceeded to share with 
certain friends, until Mr. Powers saw what was going on and confiscated the 
papers and sent you to me. You then admitted what happened and said that the 
idea was Fitton's and you had each paid him five dollars for the use of the 
carbon. Am I correct in stating what you claim as facts?"
"The little double-crosser! He never meant to give us the real thing—he was too 
yellow to get it!" Canfield was seething.
"Fitton?" Again Mr. Battersley swung back to him.
Canfield was no Tim Dykes confronted by the force of the law and fear of those 
questioning him. But the way Mr. Battersley had expressed that, his choice of 
words—Dare Chris believe the Batman still had an open mind and he was not 
already convicted? He must do the best he could—just as Hawkins had done his 
best at the inn.
"I made up the questions," he said. "That much is right. But I did not sell 
them."
"Just what was your purpose, Fitton? To make trouble generally?"
"They said they wanted questions—I went over what we'd had in class and gave 
them an exam. I wasn't going to take the real one—"
"Ah." Mr. Battersley put the fingers of his hands together, erecting a 
"steeple."
"You interest me, Fitton. So it was suggested that you obtain the exam for the 
benefit of others?"
"That's a lie!" Canfield's voice was high and shrill. "He came to us. It was all 
his idea!"
"You made some very revealing remarks earlier, Canfield, when you referred to 
the fact that Fitton was "too yellow," as you termed it, to get the real 
examination. If he approached you after he had supposedly stolen my papers, why 
would you have that vehement reaction?"
"Now look here," Mr. Canfield cut in, "so the kid got suckered in by this 
Fitton. He'll admit he did that much, but you have no right to imply that he put 
Fitton up to it in the first place."
Mr. Battersley paid no attention; instead he looked directly at Chris once more. 
"Were you approached to steal the exam?"
"Yes."
"Did you accept money for this?" He twitched the sheet lying on the desk before 
him.
"No."
"He's a liar! Ask Jimmy Baxter—Harvey—DeTenbus—" flared Canfield.
Again Mr. Battersley paid no heed to that interruption to his questioning.
"This examination represents a lot of complicated work. It could only have been 
done by someone who had a driving purpose. You admit that you did it, Fitton; 
now I am going to ask you why?"
Chris knew there was no escape; he had been driven into a corner, and truth was 
the only way out. But suddenly, as it had come to him in the inn when he knew 
that no lie could ever serve and that he must face himself as he was, he 
answered, "Because I was afraid."
Those four words fell into a silence which grew more awful as every second 
ticked away. But he had said them, and they were the truth.
"I am not going to ask you of what you were afraid, Fitton—oddly enough I don't 
believe that you are any more." The precise voice reached Chris with the same 
authority that Harry Hawkins' strong rumble had carried.
"This matter must go to the Headmaster and I do not know what his decision will 
be. I shall make my own report. However, I am convinced of one thing; this was 
not done for any gain. Canfield"—he made that name snap like a whip—"you never 
gave any money to Fitton. Now, did you?"
There was a silence as deep as before.
"I—" It was as if Canfield had tried and failed.
"At least you have not lied yourself in any deeper. I will tell you now that 
Harvey Reed has admitted that no money was passed. And the rest of his story 
differs quite a bit from what you told me yesterday. You did not pick your 
confederates very well, it would seem. But for the rest—it is entirely up to Dr. 
Stevens."
Chris drew an uncertain breath. He did not know whether what he felt was relief 
or not; he certainly could not be as sure of the future as he had been when the 
Bow Street runner had taken charge. But today it had been his word against 
theirs—and Mr. Battersley had believed him. And the Batman had been right, too: 
Chris was not afraid any more. Canfield had shrunk—he was no longer a dictator 
who had full control over Chris's well-being.
He heard Mr. Canfield still protesting. Aunt Elizabeth, for once, had said 
nothing at all, to both Chris's surprise and relief. Now she might even be ready 
to find her tongue again. But none of that mattered. He did not even care that 
he would have to face Dr. Stevens and might even be kicked out of the Academy. 
Nothing mattered except that he had said he was a coward—and then had found out 
that it was not true! A sudden warmth filled him. It was like standing before 
the fire on the inn hearth out of the freezing chill of the winter night. 
Because he had never faced up to his fears before, he had twisted and tried to 
evade, told himself he just wasn't going to be drawn into anything. Because he 
did not want to face himself as the timid coward he was—or had thought he was.
And was no longer. Nan had told him—the inn had told him—and now he knew.



9
A Family—Maybe
"What happened?"
Nan came into the apartment as if she had been running a race. Chris looked up 
from his book.
"I got suspended—for the rest of the week, or until Dr. Stevens makes up his 
mind."
"But they believed you!" That was no question, rather a statement.
"The Batman did." Chris did not want to talk about it; he had heard enough from 
Aunt Elizabeth. Yet—he owed Nan this. Slowly he described that sorry scene in 
the office; at least he saw it as a sorry one. He still cringed inside whenever 
he thought of admitting that he was afraid—afraid of Canfield and his gang.
"You weren't afraid"—Nan broke in swiftly as if she could read his thoughts—"at 
least not so much afraid you couldn't say so. You—you were braver than I was. I 
should have taken that pin back to the counter—told them everything. But—then I 
couldn't."
Chris eyed her curiously. "You say, then you couldn't. Why?"
"Because now I think I could." She laid her book bag down and flopped into the 
chair nearby. "I never told Grandma things—not really. Because I was always 
afraid I would disappoint her, and then maybe she wouldn't like me so much.
And she was the only one I had. So"—she drew a deep breath—"when Grandma wasn't 
here, I felt I didn't really have anybody. Only, you don't really need others to 
tell you what is right and what is wrong. You know it somehow—inside you know 
it.
"I knew that Uncle Jasper was using me to do bad things to people who trusted 
me. I knew that Aunt Prudence was doing right when she wouldn't let the 
smugglers get your father—" Nan plunged on.
His father—Chris remembered that fever-flushed face on the thin pillow in the 
inn bed. It was a stranger's face now, but he could remember the fear and the 
anger that had filled him then. 
"And I knew that the Squire was going to use a lie to hurt you—so I—that time I 
was strong enough to go and tell. Though I was afraid all the time I did it. If 
he had found out—" Nan paused and shivered. "I wonder if he ever did find out 
and what happened to that other Nan. I hope he never did. Never!"
"So do I!" Chris surprised himself by saying. And then he added more slowly:
"You know, I've always felt alone. There was always just one—me. Dad was away 
all the time—I'd be shipped around. Once to Uncle Pete's. They didn't really 
want me—you sure can tell. And then here. And I thought maybe—when I got old 
enough not to be a bother the way a little kid is—then Dad would want me."
He was hardly aware he was telling Nan things he had locked inside until the 
hurt never quite faded away. It was as if some gag had been torn from his mouth, 
so that now he could not stop that flood even if he wanted to.
"Dad would send money. Money! But—"
"But he didn't come himself," Nan finished for him softly when Chris did not 
continue. "But you got letters. Maybe he couldn't help it."
"It was like—" Chris shook his head. "I don't know—like we were talking 
different languages—even when he came. He'd ask questions as if he didn't know 
just what to say. I'd save up things to tell him, but I never did. There was a 
dad I thought I knew, but when he came, that was never him."
"I was luckier." Nan was not looking at him but staring at the thick carpet. "I 
had Grandma for a while. But it's true—mostly, I guess, I was just one, too. 
Like I was one with Uncle Jasper, and with Aunt Prudence, and when I was Miss 
Mallory. It's awfully lonely being just one."
"I wasn't one," Chris burst out to interrupt her, "not at the inn, I wasn't! I 
wish, I wish I could go back."
Nan sat up quickly, gazing at him with a kind of fear. "No! Chris, you have to 
be yourself—Not those other Chrises—the self that is here! If you try—that is 
running away. I don't know if you could—but it is running. Don't ever, ever 
try!"
"You think I could do it?"
"You mustn't try!" Nan was begging him now. "You must never try! I have a 
feeling, truly, I do, Chris, that that would be wrong. You would lose the real 
you and never, never find yourself again if you do that."
"I would rather not be the one I am now."
"We would all rather not be ourselves sometimes," Nan said slowly. "But we have 
to be. I don't like myself much at times. I didn't like what I did for Uncle 
Jasper—it was horrible! And sometimes I do things like that now. Oh, I don't 
mean listen to people and then tell soldiers what they are doing. But I don't 
always stand up for what I believe is right. Not the way Aunt Prudence did. Not 
the way you did, Chris."
He laughed scornfully. "I'm no prize. I told you, I'm no hero."
"You don't have to be a hero—just Chris Fitton as he's always been."
Now he stared at her. "You, you got something you—No, don't keep thinking that 
about me!" He got up and went to stand looking out of the apartment window, his 
back shutting her out.
But Nan refused to be shut out. Whenever she looked at Chris, those other 
Chrises seemed to melt in and become a part of him. She did not see the usually 
sullen-faced boy she had—yes, she thought, she had hated him then. It was all a 
part of the breakup of her calm and peaceful life with Grandma. The inn had 
forced her to act more positively than she had ever believed she could. It had 
proved something to her. Now she was certain that one could change inside. It 
would be hard work, and she would probably try to dodge other choices, she knew 
that—because she was still the person she had been. But she was not going to 
stay that person, and she would fight all the way, fight the fear and the 
loneliness, and the wanting to be more than "just one."
"I am going to remember all those Chrises," she said now quietly. "And maybe 
you'll remember those Nans. The other ones who could do things—the right 
things—"
Chris swung around. "I didn't want you for a sister," he said abruptly. "I 
didn't want you here—" He paused; it was hard to choose the right words now. 
"I—Aunt Elizabeth said we were all a family now. I didn't believe that."
She was nodding. "I didn't either," she answered him promptly, so promptly and 
with such empathy that he was a little shaken. He had so long only 
considered—and tried to keep hidden—his own feelings that it was startling to 
know his dislike had been reflected by her.
"All right. Maybe we were both wrong." The words were twisted out of him. All 
his runaway speech of a few minutes before was fast drying up. "We can start 
over—" He made that effort, and it was an effort.
"I'm willing," Nan returned.
Chris came slowly away from the window. "I'm not good at making friends," he 
warned her.
"I never had any—close ones—except Grandma. So I'm not either."
"Wait!" Chris had a sudden inspiration. He hurried out of the room.



Wait for what? Nan wondered. She stared at the tips of her shoes where they 
scuffed up the long pile of the carpet and thought about Chris. Hard to be 
friends? She was not quite sure that she could be one—not a real friend. Oh, she 
had known girls and gone around with them back in Elmsport and called them 
friends. But she had never shared with any of them what she had shared with 
Chris—those strange too real dreams and what they had said so openly just 
minutes before. She felt that she knew Chris, the real Chris, better than she 
knew anyone—maybe even Grandma—now.
And would the time come when Chris would resent her knowing? Nan thought about 
that in turn. It could be true. But that would be another thing she must learn 
to face when it came—if it came. No more hiding away from things that must be 
faced.
Chris came banging back into the room. He was carrying the inn, and now he stood 
directly before her, setting the tiny building down on the edge of the coffee 
table. It was so real, even in its smallness, one might be looking at it through 
the wrong end of a magnifying glass, one which made things look smaller instead 
of larger. She half expected to see Aunt Prudence peering out of one of the 
diamond-paned windows, or a coach pulling through the archway into the 
courtyard.

"People swear on things," Chris said. "They use Bibles to swear on in court—when 
they say they are telling the truth. All right, we'll swear on the Red Hart, 
swear we'll give each other a chance to be friends!"
Nan no longer felt that strange feeling of discomfort and fear which had been 
hers when she had first seen the inn. Now it was as familiar, and somehow as 
welcoming to her, as had been the old house at Elmsport. She did not know why 
they had dreamed and had spent such troubling hours in it. No, they could not 
have been in this! But had Chris not said that models were often made of real 
ships or planes—and perhaps, too, of houses? Was there a real Red Hart and 
perhaps one day could she and Chris find it?
"Do you swear?" Chris's tone was impatient, drawing her back to the here and 
now.
"Yes, I do." Nan put out her hand to lay two fingertips on the roof of the inn. 
"I swear I want to be friends."
Chris was right behind her making the same promise. Then he added, "Might not be 
too easy—sometimes."
Nan smiled. "Yes. But we can keep trying. We can even be a family—maybe."
Chris looked very thoughtful. Then, as he picked up the inn and balanced it on 
the flat of his palm at eye level as if he hoped to see something within, he 
said, "Might not be bad at that. And I think we'll have a chance to prove it. 
Dad wrote about a surprise—"
"So did Mother," Nan interrupted.
"Could be," Chris considered thoughtfully, "we're just going to have a real 
home."
He gazed at the Red Hart. In a way, that had been home. He wondered if any other 
would be as welcoming. There again, they would have to try. He looked at Nan, 
and for the first time the sullenness was gone from his face, and he smiled. 
Tentatively, then openly, she smiled back.



About the Author
Andre Norton, who has long had an interest in legends and history, has written 
many science-fiction and fantasy stories, which have been published both in the 
United States and in many countries abroad. At one time a children's librarian 
and bookshop owner, she now devotes her full time to writing, and has been the 
recipient of various writing and science-fiction awards. Born in Cleveland, 
Ohio, she lives in Maitland, Florida.