But this
was impossible. She could not hope to succeed.
The other thing which fixed itself in her mind was the familiar tone of
the coachman towards Dorrimore. It was more that of an equal than of a
menial. This impression confirmed her suspicion that she was trapped.
Dorrimore had doubtless enlisted the services of a confidential friend
rather than trust to a servant whose blabbing tongue might serve to
betray him.
Meanwhile Dorrimore's head was still out of the window. He was calling
to the waggoner and offering him a crown to pull his horses and load to
one side, but it was no easy task to move the gigantic lumbering wain
with its tilt as big as a haystack and its wheels a foot thick. Lavinia
had her eyes fixed at the window on her side, intent on watching a
little group of persons who were curious to see the result of the
deadlock. They were quietly disposed apparently.
Swiftly she bent down, slipped off one of her high heeled shoes and
straightened her body. The next moment there was the crash of broken
glass. She had struck the window with the heel of her shoe and had
thrust her hand through the jagged hole, turned the handle, opened the
door and had jumped out. Dorrimore, intent upon parleying with the
waggoner, had either not heard the smash or had attributed the cause to
anything but the real one.
The group were startled by the flying figure.
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