There was another clanking and a heavy curtain at the back of the shop was pulled aside to disclose a cosy, lamp-lit sitting-room and a little shrew-like woman with grizzled hair. Feeling rather like an exhibit in a museum and very tired and grubby as well, Peter advanced into the lamplight.

"Humph!" Mrs. Harman grunted. "Look as if you want a wash. What's that mess all over your knee?"

But Peter was weary of answering questions and wanted to get on. She knew she was late, and that, whether she liked them or not, her aunt and uncle would wonder what had happened to her. So she answered as politely as she could, and just as Jenny came into the room, said, "And it's good of Jenny to show me the way - I've got an awful puncture, and that's really why I'm so late."

"Jenny's not going with you to Seven Gates," old Mrs. Harman said sharply. "I won't have my girl going there - not for anything, I won't, and that's flat!"

Peter felt the tears of humiliation sting her eyes. These questions and little mysteries about Seven Gates and the Stiperstones were all so silly; angrily she turned her back to the lamplight and walked out through the shop with her head held high. Anyway, Uncle Micah was her uncle, whether other people liked it or not. It was her business and nobody else's. She hated old Mrs. Harman.

The bell jangled fiercely behind her as she tripped on the worn step and went over to her bicycle. It was dusk now, but the rain had stopped and, over to the west, a few angry bars of orange and red showed where the sun was going down behind the driven storm clouds. She had no idea which way to go, but at that moment the door of an inn on the other side of the street opened and a fat man came out on the doorstep.

"Good evening," Peter called. "Can you tell me the way to Seven Gates, please?"

The man looked at her curiously.

"Of course I can, missie. Straight on up the hill, second lane on your right. Go along the lane till you come to a thick wood. Half a mile farther on there's a white gate on your left leading into the wood. That's the first of the white gates... But you'd better hurry, lass. It'll be dark quick tonight." Then he paused and seemed to smile. "Are you stopping there the night, lass?"

More questions! But Peter liked him. He was nice. "Yes. Mr. Sterling is my uncle. Good-bye, and thanks awfully," and she plodded up the way he was pointing. She had just left the last of the houses when again she heard running footsteps behind her.

"Peter," a voice called breathlessly. "Peter. Wait for me. It's Jenny. I've come to show you the way."

Peter turned her back.