CHAPTER 8At eleven o’clock that same evening Macdonald was sitting with his back to the Valehead boundary wall, about fifty yards from the entrance to the cave. He was concealed from view by some low-growing rhododendron bushes, but he had a clear view of the drive and the arched entrance to the cave. The radiance of the late sunset had passed, and color was gradually leaving the world. The heavy-foliaged beech trees cast their dimness over the drive; the vivid green seemed to fade from the branches, leaving them dark and shadowy and colorless. The air was very still, and gradually cooling, and all the pent-up sweetness of the day seemed to be saturating the air, the scent of innumerable flowers heavy and fragrant, as though it moved in wafts on the cooling air. Slowly, imperceptibly, all
