Her intention was arrested by the sight of that awful, sombrely glistening door, swinging back suddenly on the yawning darkness of the hall, out of which literally flew out, right out on the pavement, almost without touching the white steps, a little figure swathed in a holland pinafore up to the chin, its hair streaming back from its head, darting past a lamp-post, past the red pillar-box.

.

.

"Here," cried Mrs.Fyne; "she's coming here! Run, John! Run!" Fyne bounded out of the room.

This is his own word.