Arthur started to turn into the vacant lot with her, but she gave him a little push.
“No! no! It's just a little way--I won't be afraid. You'd better run, Arthur--he might kill you!”
Arthur didn't want to be killed. “So long, then--let me know how things come out!”--and he disappeared fleetly down the block.
Missy couldn't make such quick progress; the vacant lot had been a cornfield, and the stubby ground was frozen into hard, sharp ridges under the snow. She stumbled, felt her shoes filling with snow, stumbled on, fell down, felt her stocking tear viciously. She glanced over her shoulder--had the tall figure back there on the sidewalk slowed down, too, or was it only imagination? She scrambled to her feet and hurried on--and HE seemed to be hurrying again. She had no time, now, to be afraid of the vague terrors of night; her panic was perfectly and terribly tangible. She MUST get home ahead of father.
At the kitchen door she paused a moment to regain her breath; then, very quietly, she entered. There was a light in the kitchen and she could hear mother doing something in the pantry. She sniffed at the air and called cheerily:
“Yes,” came mother's voice, rather stiffly. “Seems to me you've been a long time finding out about those lessons!”
Not offering to debate that question, nor waiting to appease her sudden craving for pop-corn, Missy moved toward the door.
“Get your wet shoes off at once!” called mother.
“That's just what I was going to do.” And she hurried up the back stairs, unbuttoning buttons as she went.
Presently, in her night-dress and able to breathe naturally again, she felt safer. But she decided she'd better crawl into bed. She lay there, listening. It must have been a half-hour later when she heard a cab stop in front of the house, and then the slam of the front door and the sound of father's voice. He had just come in on the 9:23--THAT hadn't been him, after all!
As relief stole over her, drowsiness tugged at her eyelids. But, just as she was dozing off, she was roused by someone's entering the room, bending over her.
It was father! Her first sensation was of fear, until she realized his tone was not one to be feared. And, responding to that tenderness of tone, sharp compunctions pricked her. Dear father!--it was horrible to have to deceive him.