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Bale jumped up from the bench. "That boy's right,"
she said. "I hate to be beaten. We'll catch him up."
Miss Wing had been engaged to enjoy a luxurious Continental holiday. All ahe had to do in return was to be a limpet and stick to Baba Malvoisin without suspicion of unpleasant suction—but her wonderful job was placed in jeopardy when Miss Wing was asked to overcome her dread of altitude!
MISS WING had a dread of altitude. She used to dream that she was falling downstairs—not ordinary stairs, but an endless flight of narrow steps, leading down, down—to unseen depths. When she stood at the top of this ghastly drop, her head began to swim, and her heart to leap.
Then—she fell.
There was one awful moment of suffocation as she spun over and over in space; but, even as she fought for breath she always woke up, safe and sound in bed.
This nightmare plagued her, whenever she was worried or run down, so of late it had become such a faithful nocturnal feature that she almost dreaded going to sleep.
It was, therefore, with a disproportionate throb of terror that she stood inside London's newest Tube station, and looked downwards at the long flight of the escalator.
Immediately, she felt the unpleasant prelude to vertigo—shaking knees and a faint singing in her ears. Not knowing what to do, she walked away, staring desperately at the paper she clutched.
It was essential that she reached the address typed upon that slip without any loss of time. At least, it seemed of deadly importance to her.
She had been so unusually insistent at the West End Employment Bureau that morning that the secretary had told her of the post, to get rid of her.
"Take the Tube. Mrs Malvoisin will not interview applicants after twelve, and you've cut it very fine," she said, speaking as though it were Miss Wing's fault that she was late.
Miss Wing had rushed and taken her ticket, only to stampede before the unforeseen peril of the escalator.
Her eyes filled with tears, for she had eaten no breakfast. She had no money to pay for a taxi. The fact was, she had been out of work for so long that she could not budget for rent after the end of week. She did not know what to do; but she did what other people sometimes did.
Feeling suddenly desperate, she turned and charged the escalator. To her joy and surprise, it. was now filled with other passengers, who blocked her view of the long drop. Squeezed behind the screen of a blessed portly lady, she sailed lightly down to the train.
NOT long afterwards she stood in the vestibule of a luxury hotel, and stated her business to a reception clerk.
"What name?" he asked.
"Miss Wing."
It was second nature to think of herself as "Miss Wing," because she was used only to the official title. No one had called her by her Christian title for about fifty years. That is to say, when one is young one year seems as long as. ten; and it was five years since the last of her friends and relatives had faded out.
All the same, she missed her Christian name. On the rare occasions now when she dreamed of romance, she told herself that it would begin when a man wanted to know that name.
As she waited in the splendor of the lounge, she began to realise the forlorn nature of her quest. Mrs Malvoisin was an American lady of old family and immense wealth, and would naturally insist on the highest qualifications and credentials.
She told herself that she had not even a chance of success, when she was conducted to a magnificent suite and into the presence of Mrs Malvoisin, who was a stately dame with a faultless silver water-wave.
"It is after twelve," she said. "But I always allow three minutes' grace to everyone. Not a second longer."
Miss Wing's heart sank still lower at this unpromising beginning. But, as the interview progressed, she gradually began to grasp the fact that all this overpowering pomp and circumstance was in her favor.
Mrs Malvoisin was sufficiently a personage to dispense with precedent. She applied only the personality test to the applicants for the post of companion to her only daughter on their European tour.
In her eyes, Miss Wing was a most suitable candidate. Although young, she somehow did not suggest youth. It was difficult to credit her with affairs of her own. She knew, too, the importance of showing a good front at all costs. Her grey suit was fashionably tight on her thin figure; she also wore high heels and used a discreet lipstick.
Miss Wing soon grasped the essential facts. The daughter—who, unlike Miss Wing, was called exclusively by her Christian name—was engaged to an entirely desirable and wealthy youth in New York. A beautiful and attractive girl, however, is bound to attract masculine society—which was, indeed, essential to her pleasure—so Baba was always accompanied by some young man.
This escort was an asset, since he was as much protection as an irksome detective, but his presence made some kind of chaperonage a necessity.
"You understand, Miss Wing," explained Mrs Malvoisin. "Although the risk of kidnapping is comparatively slight over here, it is safer for her to go about with some young man of our personal acquaintance. Baba is not likely to lose her head or her heart. But we cannot run risks. You must never leave her. If you neglect your duty even once, I must tell you plainly that your services will be no longer required."
"I will never leave her," promised Miss Wing fervently. She added: "But won't she hate having me always with her?"
"You must use tact. Besides, Baba has always been used to good companionship. It is very hard to be a rich girl, Miss Wing."
It does credit to Miss Wing's imagination that, even in her special circumstances, she was able to agree, without a touch of irony.
SHE left the hotel, engaged to enjoy a luxurious Continental holiday at a very high salary. All she had to do in return was to be a limpet and stick to Baba, without suspicion of unpleasant suction.
"There must be a string to it, she thought, as she walked exultantly back to her room. "I expect the girl will be a cat."
In her experience of nouveaux riches, she had learned to connect wealth with insults. But Baba was the most charming rich girl she had ever met—beautiful, accomplished, and gay. Since she had been brought up with more pomp than a princess, it was impossible for her to view life from quite the same angle as an ordinary citizen; but she was actually elevated by her wealth above petty standards.
In her turn, she found Miss Wing her nicest companion. She was tireless, sensible, and discreet. Very soon she was accepted as part of the heiress's background.
For all that, she was a clog on complete freedom, and Baba took a sporting view of the position. If she could get rid of Miss Wing by fair means, it was up to her to profit by the opportunity.
Miss Wing soon found out that Baba was trying to discover her weak spot; and she knew that, if it were tapped, she would exploit that special inhibition whenever she wanted a brief flutter of liberty.
She tested Miss Wing in a variety of ways. They went to swimming pools, where—however chilly the water—Miss Wing swam with Baba, stroke for stroke. They patronised the dansants, but the most fascinating partner could not tempt Miss Wing to dance. They took strenuous excursions, where they stumbled through the dark, stony, underground passages of ruined chateaux and abbeys. Miss Wing often got headaches, and she cracked the heels of one shoe; but she always emerged into daylight outwardly fresh as paint.
IN spite of these hectic interludes, she enjoyed every minute of her wonderful holiday.
Every day, too, she saw increasing possibilities in her job. She noticed that, when Baba spoke of the future, she included her as a permanent member of the household. "I must show you this or that when we're back in New York," was a frequent remark.
Miss Wing's imagination widened the loophole, until she grew to hope that the job might prove her old-age pension. She might stay on, after Baba's marriage, to help oil the wheels of staff management. Baba, too, might be starting a nursery.
But when they motored through glamorous valleys, dim and green as faded tapestry, winding down long hairpin bends to the river of long grass which rippled through the narrow gorge, and up again to the opposite crest—always crowned with a chateau—she dreamed of other things. Under the influence of the mediaeval landscape, she thought of that fabulous lover who—with his magic formula—would rend the shrivelled sheath of "Miss Wing," and draw out from it a girl with a name of her very own.
At such times she was unconscious of Baba and her young man. Although he was charged nearly as frequently as the water of the average swimming bath, he always seemed the same youth to her—tall, athletic, with thick, wavy hair and a jutting chin. He wore long, baggy plus fours, breathed physical energy, and answered to some short name, such as "Jim" or "Bill."
These escorts often resented Miss Wing, although the first sign of discourtesy was severely crushed by Baba. The last escort of all seemed to feel the cramping element most keenly. He had more definite personality than the others—less chin and more brow—and his name was "Meredith."
As a matter of fact, he was a romantic, and the scenery was calling him to use it as atmosphere in an episode which should make a perfect memory. Although he was not in love with Baba, he wanted to be, since her beauty and engagement ring invested her with the glamor of a lost cause.
One day he tackled Miss Wing on the subject.
"Do you never fade out, Miss Wing?"
"Never." Her reply was prompt. "I'm paid to protect Baba."
"Why has she got to be protected?"
"Because she's young and beautiful—and rich."
With slight amusement, he glanced down at the fly-weight, Miss Wing.
"And who protects you?" he asked.
"I don't need protection. I'm just a—a sort of a limpet. And I mean to stick."
"Until we find a way to shake you off."
At the hint of a threat Miss Wing looked anxious.
"You needn't mind me," she assured him. "You can say anything you like, just as if I wasn't there. I don't listen."
"Why not? Haven't you ears?"
As he spoke he noticed that her hair was tucked in curls, behind ears which were small and attractive. Although his approval was not lost upon Miss Wing, she continued to protest.
"Of course, I have the usual features. But I want you to understand this. I'm just official. I don't register."
IN spite of Meredith's determination to dislodge her, Miss Wing felt happy and secure. The fact that there were no more attempts to probe her weak spot was evidence that Baba had grown discouraged. It was, therefore, with the fatal confidence which heralds a fall, that she got out of the car, one darkish autumn afternoon, and stood on the cobbled pavement of a small, ancient town. All around the square loomed antique buildings, like derelict vessels in a dead port, while mist arose from the river which flowed turgidly through the valley.
"What do we do here?" asked Baba, who was thorough in her travels.
"There's only one thing to do in this live burg," replied Meredith, who had been there before. "We climb up to the citadel."
Miss Wing looked up at the dim stone battlements, just visible at the top of a bosky precipice, and reflected that they were faced with a stiff uphill walk. It was rather a shock, therefore, after Meredith had escorted them through a door, and paid a small entrance fee, to see, rising up before her, two unusually long flights of steps.
They were so steep that, when they reached the top, the party sat down on a stone bench to recover their wind. Already they had risen far above the houses, whose roofs were smudged with beaten-down smoke rising from the chimneys. Looking down, they had a view of the river and the steamers churning the yellowish water.
"Is it a stiff pull up to the top?" asked Baba, who did not like walking.
"No," replied Meredith. "It's steps all the way up."
"That's better. How many?"
"Over four hundred. I counted them once, but I forget the exact number."
Miss Wing's heart dropped a beat. Four hundred steps. She imagined a staircase, composed of fifty steps, and she put eight of these staircases on end. The result was a veritable nightmare vision.
To her joy, Baba shrugged and lit a cigarette.
"If this town wants me to take their citadel they must install a lift," she declared. "I'm parking here."
"But you must do it," protested Meredith. "When you get back home and tell people you've been here, the first thing they'll ask is: Did you go up to the citadel?'"
"Don't care if they do."
"Yes, you will. You hate to be beaten.... Anyway, I'm going."
Springing up, he swung along a plank bridge, fringed with mountain ash, and disappeared.
It was quiet after he had gone. Miss Wing realised the fatal blank, and was about to propose a descent to the town for tea, when Baba jumped up from the bench.
"That boy's right," she said. "I hate to be beaten. We'll catch him up."
Miss "Wing did not betray her discomfiture; her face was set like a stone, but she felt as shrinking within as a bit of ice on a fishmonger's slab in midsummer. She obediently followed Baba around the corner, where another long flight of steps was built into the precipice.
Looking up, she saw other staircases rising, one above the other, in a giddy perspective. They were broken up into flights, but Miss Wing thought of the inevitable descent, when she would be forced to look down at the town, so far below. Instantly her head began to spin at the threat of altitude.
If she were suddenly overpowered by vertigo and fell, at the best she might sprain her ankle. It was about equal to a broken neck, for, if she were incapacitated, she would be of no more use to Mrs Malvoisin.
Miss Wing had no illusions about her employer. She had not proved her value yet, and was still on trial with the august lady.
Miss Wing remembered those last ghastly days of unemployment and resolved to hang on to her luck, at whatever risk. The pity of it was that when she crashed—as she knew she would—and was met at the Door by St. Peter, he would ask her a question
"What name?"
And she would have to answer, "Miss Wing".
The fear of losing her job was greater even than her dread of the steps. Even while she was conscious of every foot she rose took her up further from the ground, she led the way, climbing grimly, with the tireless precision of a machine.
Her mechanical movements were noticed, with ironical amusement, by Meredith, who was resting about half way up.
"I knew you wouldn't bilk," he called out to Baba. "Sit down and admire the view. Now, isn't that worth a little effort?"
His enthusiasm was somewhat forced for visibility was poor, and part of the town was wiped out by mist. Miss Wing stared down on to a confused huddle of buildings—ominously dwarfed-and a coil of the river, spanned with miniature bridges. It was rather like looking at a picture through a reducing-glass, and she moistened her lips nervously.
Baba was swift to sense her discomfort.
"Tired, Miss Wing?" she asked. "Would you rather rest here while we go on?"
The honey-sweet voice put Miss Wing on her guard. If once Baba suspected her obsession, this would be merely the beginning of a series of dizzy adventures which would lead inevitably to the sack!
"No, thanks," she replied. "I don't feel my legs a bit."
"Of course not." Meredith spoke quickly. "She never does. Miss Wing feels nothing. And she doesn't see and doesn't hear."
Miss Wing could not know that his bitterness was inspired by annoyance at any frustration of Nature. She thought it arose from his personal dislike of the chaperon. Biting her lip, she turned her back on her companions and watched the procession of tourists down the steps.
It was evident that she was alone in her obsession, for the citadel had been stormed by a number of visitors. She noticed, too, something else which gave her a flutter of hope.
"Everyone seems to be going down," she said. "No one's coming up. I wonder if we are too late to get in."
Meredith ruthlessly slew her excuse.
"Then we'd better push off again," he said. "Follow me, my children."
THEY followed him. Up... up. Higher and higher, with the town dropping lower at every step. Even to sound hearts and lungs it was a gruelling ascent to make against time, and, before very long, they were forced to rest again on a stone slab.
"Good drop," remarked Meredith approvingly, looking over the side. We can't be far from the top.
Clinging to her seat Miss Wing saw that a sinister change had indeed taken place in the view. The bridges now appeared as black filaments, spanning stream. Steamers had shrunk to water beetles, while the buildings had dwindled to misted suggestions of mushrooms.
Unluckily, Baba put her vague fear into words. "Are we as high as the Roman Catholic Cathedral in London?" she asked.
"Higher than that," replied Meredith. "We're about on a level with the top of the Empire Building.
His statistics were of no value, he had forgotten the height of either building. But he knew that Baba wanted to be thrilled, so he obliged.
Had he known the effect of his careless words upon the other girl he would chivalrously have kicked himself all the way down those impressive stairs.
They had made Miss Wing realise the exact position, as she remembered photographs of the Empire building.
"When you're at the top you can feel it sway, can't you?" she asked in a small, controlled voice.
"Of course," replied Meredith. "It wouldn't be safe if it didn't give. "
In that case, Miss Wing, too, was secure, for she felt herself suddenly rock, as though in the throes of violent disintegration
Meredith glanced at his wrist watch, and then urged them on again.
"There's rather a dizzy bit ahead of us," he warned them. "Watch your step."
THEY came to it at the top of the next staircase, when they had climbed clear of the bushes and small trees which clung to the bluff, and reached the sheer rock.
Just above them rose the high wall of the fort, and, clinging to it on one side, was built the last flight of steps.
It swung directly over a gulf of vacancy high above the town, the trees, the Cathedral. An iron hand-rail was the only protection from the drop down into the abyss. Miss Wing felt exactly as though she were in her special nightmare. Every fibre seemed to weaken, every muscle relax. Her legs doubled under her weight, like wax tapers. She was conscious of a horrible sensation at the base of her spine, as though a steel finger were prodding an exposed nerve,
For one ghastly moment she felt as though she must faint.... Then she realised that Baba had pushed past her and was mounting the steps, forcing a thrill the while, with shrill cries of excitement.
"Meredith, look down. There's the top the cathedral. Oh, what a way below! Meredith, I'm going to drop my handkerchief. Oo! Look at it, miles below. It looks like a bit of confetti. Oh! I can't see it now." .
Baba. Her job. With a stupendous effort Miss Wing forced herself to go on. She found that she could just manage to pull herself upward, step by step, if she looked up into the woolly sky, and never relaxed for a second her grip of the rail.
Suddenly she thought she heard footsteps coming toward her, and she wondered vaguely what would happen if someone came down just as she was fling up. They would meet—and neither could give way. They would be stranded in mid-air, between the earth and the sky.
A; ghastly thought, which made her look down from the clouds. She saw no one on the steps, but below her was a terrible chasm of misted air, pricked by twin spires.
It was the top of the cathedral, far below her. At the sight, her stomach seemed to turn over. Everything began to spin round. The sky was growing black.
She shut her eyes desperately and clung to the rail. As her strength returned she continued to pull herself up, automatically, like the reflex movements of a dead snake, until her foot reached the level.
Looking up, she saw before her, an ancient door in the wall, and a dangling below which was painted "SONNEZ".
The others had just entered, so the official was prompt to answer her ring. Directly she had passed through the ponderous portals, into the courtyard, she experienced a blessed sense of safety.
Massive stone buildings ringed her, enclosing a quadrangle of vivid green grass, where the flowers of summer lingered in autumnal decay. On one side was a hind of makeshift refreshment room, filled with chattering children in charge of two nuns and an elderly priest.
Baba, as usual, insisted on a tour of the museum and the fort, so Miss Wing accompanied her like a faithful shadow.
Presently they returned to the quadrangle, where the priest was photographing his flock. Baba and Meredith few sat down at a small table, to drink beer, while Miss Wing carried her black coffee a discreet distance away.
She stared listlessly across at the shrivelled red rambler roses on the opposite wall. The afternoon was grey and cheerless, as though the very air were draped in cobwebs. Her heart heavy with foreboding, when the priest finished photographing the children, and plumped himself down on the same bench as herself.
Presently Miss Wing felt compelled to speak, indirectly, of her fear.
"Isn't it dangerous to bring children up here?" she asked.
"Why?" The priest was surprised. "It is not a mountain climb. There is no danger in walking upstairs."
"But that last bit," Miss Wing shuddered in retrospect. "The side is quite open, and you look down on such an awful drop."
"There is a rail to hold on by. Naturally, we caution the little ones and help those who are smallest. We take reasonable care, and we know the Saints will protect them."
Miss Wing—who was a Protestant—felt a surge of envy for a religion which could ensure invisible protection. Looking into the priest's kindly face, she spoke impulsively.
"Do you believe in miracles?"
"Certainly," he replied. "They are happening every minute. Of course, they are not spectacular supernatural events, but everyday trifles which are projected divinely, to meet a special crisis."
"Ah! Then a miracle could happen, to save me?"
"If you have faith." The priest looked intently at her pale face, and added: "Surely miracles have happened to you before? Think, Madame!"
Suddenly Miss Wing's face lit up. She remembered her job, which she had always placed in the class of supernatural luck. But now, she realised that the actual miracle was a trifle of everyday occurrence, when an opportune straggle of passengers had lined up before her on the escalator.
It was not so haphazard as it appeared. It was a slack time, and the station was rarely crowded. Had it remained deserted for only a brief period longer, Mrs Malvoisin's precious three minutes of grace would have run out, and she would have refused to grant an interview.
Meredith, who chanced to be glancing in Miss Wing's direction, surprised the glow which transfigured her face. His pulse suddenly quickened in response. It called to some vital need within himself, reached some hidden sanctuary, which Baba, for all her beauty and charm, had never penetrated.
For a moment the machine had actually turned into a girl. An attractive girl, charged with the vitality of youth and health, and also refined by spirit. But, even as he watched her, the flame was blown out.
Miss Wing had just remembered the ordeal in front of her. Again, she asked herself however she was going to get down that first awful flight. It was true that she had once seen a stout lady descend the steps of a pier backwards; but, were she to follow her example, she would betray her vulnerable spot to Baba.
And she knew that, while Baba would be sweet and sympathetic, her perfect companion would' drop in her esteem. It would be impossible for her to understand a weakness which she would connect with cowardice. If she wanted to keep her job, she must never expose the fatal heel of Achilles.
Conscious of the priest's sympathetic gaze, she tried to explain her discomfort.
"The air is not very bracing up here," she said.
"But you are only on a level with most of the countryside," he reminded her. "It is the town which is buried in a pit."
Miss Wing, who had foolishly imagined herself perched on the top of a tower, laughed faintly.
"Silly of me. Then I suppose there are other ways of reaching the citadel?"
"There is a winding road at the back, used by the waggons which bring up the army stores," he told her.
For a mad second she again glimpsed release. She could return to the town by that road. Only—it meant leaving Baba, who certainly would not wish to accompany her. And if she deserted her charge, it meant the sack.
She clung passionately to her job. It was her salvation. It had driven away the spectres of the past, given her a grip on the present, inspired her with hope for the future.
Conscious that Baba was catching her eye, she crossed over to her table.
"Nearly time to go," said the girl. "So stop flirting with your priest."
"He was only telling me that there is a road at the back for army lorries," explained Miss Wing gravely.
To her surprise, Baba's eyes began to sparkle.
"I'll sell you an idea," she cried. "It's dull to come back the same way. We'll ride down in a lorry."
"I don't buy," declared Meredith. "For you'll want to drive. Hairpin bends on a greasy road. Not on my life."
"Then Miss Wing and I will go without you."
AS the young couple began to bicker, Miss Wing—discreet even before the threat of Eternity—slipped back to her bench.
Her heart was bursting with a newborn hope. A miracle might happen, to save her. Her future hung on Baba's whim, and also on the outcome of that clash of wills. She cared nothing for motoring perils, and could take her chance of any as lightly as a dirt-track racing ace.
"I must have faith," she thought.
Closing her eyes, she shut out the grim old walls and the shrivelled screen of crimson roses. Dimly conscious of the shrill voices of children and the soft cooing of doves, she concentrated.
"I will believe. It will happen. I have faith."
She lost all sense of time. Presently she became aware that the priest was wishing her good-bye. She sat up with a start, and noticed that it was perceptibly darker.
"I was thinking of miracles," she said. "Mercy, what a fog!"
"That, alas! is no miracle, but a misfortune," laughed the priest. "We get them constantly in autumn. When the wind is in a certain quarter it blows the smoke from the chemical factory right into the damp air."
"Then we ought to be getting down," said Miss Wing, turning towards the small table.
To her dismay it was empty.
"My friends," she cried. "Have you seen them?"
"A pretty young lady in green and a young man?" he asked. "Yes, they have already left."
The priest nodded towards the ancient door in the wall, and added: "The young lady beckoned to you. I thought you saw her."
"How long ago?"
Miss Wing could understand French; but he answered her in a language which she could not translate.
He shrugged and turned away.
Miss Wing's heart seemed to stop beating. How long? The answer was a shrug. Half a minute—five—or even longer? She knew that her fate hung on the difference.
It would never occur to Baba to wait for her below. In spite of her charm, she was a spoiled young autocrat. All her life she had been waited on and accompanied everywhere. Others waited for her, but she did not wait for them.
Besides, there was no reason for her to wait, in view of the fact that Miss Wing knew their rendezvous.
While it appeared simple, Miss Wing remembered that Mrs Malvoisin had arranged to meet the party at the prearranged hotel on their way to another town. When Baba came with her escort and minus the companion Miss Wing's job would be gone.
In a panic, she rushed outside and stood looking down on to a thick bank of baffling mist. Straining her eyes, she could see no looming shadows. The fog had swallowed up Baba completely.
Immediately her brain began to boil with horrible possibilities. She remembered that Meredith—unlike the other escorts—was not a friend of the family, but a hotel acquaintance, introduced by a mutual friend. In spite of his engaging personality—in fact, probably because of it —he might be a fortune hunter.
Or—he might even be one of a kidnapping gang, who had made the fog his opportunity.
At the thought, Miss Wing lost her last shred of self-control. She did not know where she was, or what she did, although she tried to run. Yet she not seem to advance as the fog swirled around her in a dun blanket—muffling her, binding her, confusing her senses.
Only one thing was clear. Whether she arrived at the hotel without Baba, or whether Baba arrived, unharmed, without her, she had lost her job.
So great was her mental agony she appeared actually afflicted with symptoms of physical distress. She was sick and giddy; her heart was leaping madly, while iron bands clamped her temples.
Her job was gone. She had no money to face the future, for her first salary had been spent in buying clothes necessary for her position. And the fog was everywhere—all around her, below her, inside her.
Her job was gone. As she paused for breath, suddenly she heard Baba laugh a few yards below her. Instantly her fear of unemployment was swept away, and she became aware that she was standing at the top of a flight stairs, walled with vacancy, lead down to unseen depths.
Her knees began to shake violently, as all the familiar sensations of vertigo rushed at her in a mass attack. Then, to her horror, like a liner looming up, through a fog, appeared the magnified figure of a gigantic black-clad female, who was pulling herself upwards by the rail.
They met, and neither would give in a short but desperate encounter, Miss Wing clung, like a limpet to the slippery bar of iron, but the woman's superior weight won the day. Forcing the girl aside, she rolled on, like a relentless machine, still holding on to the rail.
Pushed out into the middle of the stairway, Miss Wing felt her heel give way under her. She stumbled, balanced, clutched the empty air, and fell.
She fell....
It was like her nightmare a ghastly moment of breathless agony. She knew that the cathedral spires, the trees, the houses, must all be rushing up to her. Then she felt herself caught in a pair of tweed arms and heard Meredith laugh.
"Good tackle" he said.
Unable to believe in her safety, she clung to his neck.
"Did I fall far?" she panted.
"Not far to fall," was the reply. "We're nearly at the bottom."
Miss Wing could hardly believe her ears, although she vaguely remembered her brain-storm and how, while it lasted, it blotted out everything else.
"Did I—I must have come down very quickly," she said.
"Like an avalanche," declared Baba. "No wonder you slipped on those slimy steps."
"No wonder," echoed Meredith. "Look at her broken heel. She threw that in just to make it more difficult. What a mountaineer you'd make."
Suddenly Miss Wing began to laugh, while she thrilled with triumphant life. The Priest had said that the fog was no miracle. Yet in spite of her mental turmoil, she knew she could never have made that perilous descent if the empty gulfs of space around her had not been mercifully veiled.
Meredith watched her transformed face with a thrill which welcomed romance. And since he naturally wanted to know the name of a girl who had awakened his pulse, he spoke on impulse.
"Next time you feel like falling, let me know, and I'll be waiting around, Miss—What's your Christian name?"
Miss Wing told him... Exit Miss Wing
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