Front matter (continued 3)

She was considering her position, when she heard a call--actually a human call.

A wave of passionate thankfulness swept over her--nearly as possible she burst out crying from sheer relief. Who--who could it be?

Then she saw.

Rather above, and a good deal to her left, was a figure making towards them in a swift and capable manner.

Pamela was just going to answer with a cry of welcome, when a sense of dazed confusion checked her, and for several moments she remained just staring with an uneasy suspicion that she might have "gone off her head" from the strain.

For the person coming down towards her was the double of herself. No less, apparently.

Pamela looked away--shut her eyes, opened them and stared down at the sea, moving everlastingly through the shifting haze of the white fog. Everything was the same. Reube was still unconscious. She glanced at the poor foot, it still seemed the wrong way round. Then she looked back at the girl, and saw--certainly herself--to all appearance.

A tall slim creature in a blue serge skirt, tan stockings, tan shoes, a Japanese silk blouse, and chamois leather gauntlet gloves. It was almost a relief to realize that she wore a dark knitted tam-o'-shanter--which Pam was not wearing that day, though she often wore one. Over the shoulder of this double hung a thick plait of lovely bright hair. Pamela glanced down at her own plait to compare them, and her sudden thought was--

"Hers is lighter."

Pausing at a distance of some yards, the stranger stared hard at Pamela, and Pamela was so absorbed in staring at her in return that she nearly slid down the Beak into the sea.

"What is the matter?"

That was the first thing the double asked, and her voice was a little unexpected. It was rather deep, and she spoke slowly--carefully--with the least touch of something different in the accent.

Pamela cleared her throat; she felt nervous, she felt the least bit as though nothing were real.

"It's little Reube Ensor," she said, "he's hurt."

"Reube Ensor!" repeated the other girl with care, "how did he come upon this cliff?"

"He's only six. He got away from the other children coming from school. I suppose he wanted to climb. Anyway, he's hurt his foot awfully. I've been trying to get him up for ages, but it's appallingly difficult, because he's fainted and he can't do a thing for himself, you see."

She rushed the words with a sort of friendliness, yet all the while she was quite absorbed in the girl and hardly knew what it was she said.

"I shall help you," said the stranger; and came along in an active, sure-footed way, glancing about as she came.

Pamela crossed over Reube's small body to the right side, to make room for the other girl who, kneeling, looked at him, at his leg and foot--Pamela meanwhile looking at her.

"This is the boy of the farm on this hill," said the girl, and raised her eyes, meeting Pamela's. They stared straight at each other, and the original Pam--so to speak--was conscious rather thankfully that this interloping "Pam" was not like her in the face.

She was handsomer. She was very handsome, but she had not Pamela's elusive charm and daintiness of outline.

Her skin was fair and untanned; but her eyes were dark, long shaped, and of a red-brown colour, with dark lashes; her eyebrows were long and cleanly pencilled, set rather high above her eyes. Her nose was the least bit aquiline, and she had those cut-upward nostrils that give a curiously disdainful air; it was a beautiful nose. Her mouth was beautiful too, very well shaped, but with rather thin lips, and her chin was round and full.

She was certainly a very handsome girl, especially if you added her hair to the catalogue. It was golden--shades lighter than Pam's--a real bright gold colour, thick and long.

She sat down sideways--all her attitudes were graceful, like Pamela's.

"Why did you come for him?" she asked, making a sign towards Reube.

"Why did you come after me?" retorted Pamela; she felt instinctively something the least bit supercilious in the look and manner of the other.

"I was near the shed where carts are put, and I saw you. I have seen you before, and I wished to know----" she paused, then went on, skipping what she "wished to know", "I saw you put your basket on the cliff and go down. So I waited to know why you climbed in such bad weather. After a while I came after you to see what happened. If you had called I should have come more quickly."

Pamela in return told why she had come back. She related what Mrs. Ensor had said. "When I got to that cart-shed, it rushed over me all in one instant that the crying sea-gull was Reube. I had to come back. Don't you have those sort of convictions sometimes--you know--when there's no earthly sense in a thing yet you're perfectly sure it must be."

The other girl shook her head.

"Oh no. I don't feel like that," she said, "I do what I choose, when I wish to do it, that's all."

Then she glanced up at the cliff just above them and went on with decision.

"We cannot take him by that way. It is less steep the path I came down. We must go along--then up. See, now, he is very small and light, we can carry him between us, it will be easy for two."

CHAPTER X

Life or Death on the Beak Cliff

Afterwards, Pamela found she had rather an indistinct recollection of that journey to the cliff top. One thing was certain, she could not have done it without the help of her double. They carried Reube in a sort of sling made by their own cotton petticoats. It was the strange girl's notion, and proved quite practical. Each girl wore a petticoat. One supported the boy's head and shoulders, and one his legs--any other method would have been impossible, because of the injured foot, that is to say, without causing terrible pain to Reuben.

He came to himself while he was being trussed into this amateur sling, and stared at the new girl with such interest that Pamela felt it was as good as "burnt feathers" for curing faintness.

"Hullo, Reube," she said, laughing, "now we shan't be long--shall we?"

"No, Miss," agreed Reube in a weak voice.

"Hold on this," ordered the stranger.

"Yes, Miss, I'll 'old to it," he gazed from one girl to the other with interest.

That was the beginning. The end was on the top resting near the egg basket--with Reube like a mummy flat on the grass, and the pair of girls taking breath.

"I'm awfully obliged to you," said Pamela, "really grateful beyond words. I should have had to stay there all night."

"All night, why?" asked the other, turning her head to look curiously at the speaker. In that moment Pam found herself wondering if the girl was really as supercilious as she looked--or whether the expression was caused by her disdainful eyebrows.

"Why! But you wouldn't leave a person like that, would you?" Pamela opened her big, grey-blue eyes as she answered with this question.

"Oh, yes. If it seemed to be the most sensible thing to do. I should put him in the safest place possible--then I would go and find help."

"He would have fallen down," said Pamela decidedly, "he wasn't conscious, and he couldn't hold on. One daren't be responsible for leaving him."

The other girl shrugged her shoulders slightly.

"Oh, well--where is the sense to kill two people instead of one? You are the most important."

"I! Not so sure," Pam laughed. "I'm only a woman, and this child will be a man some day. We've got too many women in England as it is--heaps too many, and we want all the boys we can get, they are fearfully important."

"Oh, for that perhaps! I was thinking of birth. You are Pamela Romilly, and your family is distinguished; he is but a common child."

Pamela was veritably startled by such an odd remark. The "common child" appeared to have much the same feeling, to judge by his round eyes. He looked at Pam--to whom he was devoted--anything she said was right, but he did not understand much about it anyway.

"That sounds rather like the Middle Ages--or the people of the French Court before the big Revolution, doesn't it?" she said cautiously, not wishing to offend this young person of strange views who had helped her so grandly out of a tight corner; "you see we don't have that sort of opinions nowadays. At least one never hears them--especially since the war. It brought us all close together. Our brother fought--and Mrs. Ensor's brother fought, and there you are. We've all got on the same ground and we want to stay like that--you can't put people back when they've done ripping things, can you?"

Reube closed his eyes. These were the sentiments he was used to from Romillys, Shards, Ensors, and Badgers, and all the rest of the valley folk; he could understand that.

"Did your brother fight?" asked the strange girl quickly.

"Oh, yes--Royal Navy--he's Lieutenant on the destroyer Spite. Dad's a sailor, you know, he commands the battleship Medusa, one of the new ones."

There was a pause, then the other girl rose to her feet.

"My father was killed," she said in a sort of fierce, stifled voice.

Pamela jumped up also. She was shocked through all her sensitive being.

"Oh," she exclaimed. "Oh, I'm so horribly sorry. I oughtn't to have talked about the war, one never knows. How splendid--how utterly splendid!"

The other girl said nothing at all, but made a move to pick up Reuben. Pamela took her share--and the egg basket, and the two of them started off with the chrysalis slung between them. It was easy enough going through the longish coarse grass which was now so wet, and the drifting mist that still held. Pamela was thinking hard, but she did not speak, that last sentence spoken by the strange girl had been such a shock that she wanted her to do the talking. Perhaps matters would be explained later.

The hour was nearer seven than six o'clock, for all these doings had taken up time.

One after another questions rose in Pamela's mind. She was tired and strained without knowing it, so the questions seemed to be dropped without answers. They went on down the long lane between the gorsy banks. As the strange girl was leading she had command of the procession; she made for the cart-shed, went in, and stopped.

"Take your petticoat," she ordered, "then I will put this child on your back, and open the gate. You may take him to the farm."

"Oh--but----" began Pamela, disturbed and puzzled.

"I shall not come into the farm, if that is what you wish. It is not possible," the other cut her short in a peremptory manner; "quick now--we cannot stand here; someone may come and that would be annoying."

Pamela found herself swept along in spite of herself. She mechanically did as she was told. The other girl was so strong and decided.

Just before she lifted little Reuben she said to him:

"Please say nothing to your family about me. Do you understand? It is better for everyone that people do not talk. If you talk Sir Marmaduke Shard will be angry with you."

"Yes, Miss," murmured Reube, awestricken and confused. A moment after he knew nothing, because when he was lifted he fainted.

Pamela wanted to get the business over as quickly as possible. The boy was a great anxiety. Also she felt as though her brain were entirely confused, and she wanted to set it in order again. She passed through the farm-gate--the dog began to bark furiously--then she called. On the other side of the stack-yard she saw a man hurrying, it was Ensor, the farmer; then Mrs. Ensor appeared, and immediately she found herself the centre of a small crowd, and heard herself saying that they ought to send for a doctor at once because the foot was very bad.

"It mayn't be broken, but it's all wrong," she said.

Ensor did not talk, he was a silent man; everybody else did, and Pamela had to urge quiet and warm milk at once.

"I had nothing to give him and he was so thirsty, poor mite."

"You look bad enough yourself, Missie. Down the Beak! Whoever heard tell the like. Naughty boy----"

"Don't scold him, Mrs. Ensor, he really has been through an awful lot," protested Pamela. "No, I won't stay a moment. I must get back as soon as possible, or my mother will be anxious. If you like I'll tell Major Fraser at Mainsail Cottage, probably he's in now."

But Mrs. Ensor would not have that--she had, as she told her husband, "a better notion of what was becoming", so the eldest boy was despatched--running--with a good deal of elbow action--and Pamela took her leave then, and went soberly surrounded by an atmosphere of intense loving gratitude. It was hardly spoken--it was in the air.

She felt as though she had small right to it, because, had it not been for the stranger, she must have been still on the face of that awful cliff--with dusk coming on, and the fog so chill. She shivered an instant, but at the same time almost her heart gave a little bound of excitement.

She had met the other girl; her own double! And who was she? What was her story? Where had she come from?

"I'll ask her," thought Pam, "she will be waiting in the cart-shed."

But no one was in the cart-shed. The place was bleak and shadowy, full of mist. The girl was gone.

It was a blow. Freed from the burden and care of the rescued Reube, Pamela had pictured that she and the girl would walk "home"--she did not know where that was, but believed it to be Woodrising--they would talk. She would learn the girl's name, and hear where she came from and why she was at Woodrising.

This break off was very irritating, because there was such a great deal of mystery, and it has been said that Pamela was inquisitive, or at anyrate always eager to know the "why" of puzzling things. Then, suddenly, a few words spoken rushed to her mind. The girl had told Reube that if he talked Sir Marmaduke Shard would be angry. Well, that settled it from one point of view. Sir Marmaduke had brought someone secretly to Bell Bay; this was the person he had brought--he was behind the mystery!

"Woodrising is his house--they must have gone there, I thought that in the beginning. Now I wonder if that silly little Chipman creature is taking care of this girl."

Pamela frowned as she reasoned it out. There is a game in which people hunt for hidden things and are told whether they are getting "warmer", as they come near it, or "colder", as they get farther away.

Pamela was getting very warm indeed!

Just at that moment she saw someone in front of her. It was past the turn into the cliff road, and she was making straight for the steep drop into Bell Bay. Clouds and the persistent fog together were making an evening much too dull for the date, now days were lengthening out so much. For a moment or two Pamela was uncertain, then she realized who they were. Two figures--one tall, with the unmistakable walk of a flat-footed person who turns her toes in; the other small, very dapper and neatly made, walking with short steps.

The Floweret, and Hughie.

She was startled almost into calling; then it occurred to her to shirk persistent questions by keeping behind till they got home. However, that did not present itself as the right course to a member of the Romilly family, so Pamela decided that first thoughts were best and she shouted cheerfully.

Hughie stopped short, and checked his companion, who looked in every direction but the right one before she became aware of Pamela's slim figure speeding down towards them. Then she waved both her basket and her waterproof cloak, and in so doing knocked Hughie's hat off, while some of the contents of the basket fell on the road.

Hughie salved them, miraculously unbroken, and replaced them in the basket with precision.

"How delightful, dear Pamela!" cried Miss Chance beaming. "Now where do you spring from? Do you know the most odd thing happened a short time ago! As Hughie and I were coming slowly up from the cove at Ramsworthy--very slowly--I was quite convinced that I saw you and another girl exactly your height, you seemed to be carrying something. Just for one moment I saw you in the mist, against the sky line, as it were. But fog is so terribly deceptive that I mistrusted my own eyes. It was only for an instant--you seemed to be just on the top of the cliff--then you disappeared."

"Well," said Pam, not at all afraid of the Floweret's acuteness--because it did not exist, "I was on the cliff top, and I was carrying something. The fact is, Miss Chance, I've had a pretty lively adventure, and it's a bit of a mercy--it's a real big mercy, when one comes to think of it, that I'm here to tell my tale."

She walked on with them, carrying her eggs, and recounted her story, very briskly--simply leaving out her double.

She told how she went over the cliff, because of the oddness of the sea-bird scream, found little Reuben, and hauled him out of danger. She said very little, laying no stress on the terrible difficulty and danger of the feat.

Hughie made no remark. Miss Chance asked many questions.

"Dear Pamela," she cried, "I can't bear to think of it! How did you manage to lift him if his foot was injured?"

Pamela said she used her petticoat as a sort of sling.

"Petticoat--Oh!" gasped the Floweret horror-stricken, and pursued the matter no further in that direction. "We cannot be thankful enough that you are spared," she concluded.

"I gave him to the Ensors," went on Pamela, skating lightly over the interval. "Ensor was in the stack-yard--just going off to hunt--he'd never have found Reube, I'm certain. They sent off Joey to get Doctor Fraser--look there they come--I'm so glad."

This created a diversion. Miss Chance was thrilled also because she adored Major Fraser--and all brave men, for that matter--she was an excellent woman with high ideals, though her feet were flat.

The parties met and stopped for explanations.

"What's this story about little Reube found by you on the Beak, Miss Pam?" asked the Major, "Joey is a bit tongue-tied! Here, young man, run on and tell your mother I'm coming at once."

This order he gave in parenthesis, and then said to Pamela again:

"It seems to be a miraculous happening all round. Lucky for the child that you heard him call--and still greater luck that you were able to get him to the top! But I suppose it was not the worst part of the Beak?"

Pamela avoided the look of shrewd inquiry.

"It wasn't precipitous, of course," she said, "we should be having tea with the mermaids if it had been."

"Didn't the fog make it slippery?" asked Major Fraser.

"Oh yes, rather. However, we did it," then meeting his eyes she went on: "I shall learn first aid after this, Major Fraser. Do you know I hadn't a notion what to do with his foot. He fainted, poor tiny mite, and I hadn't a drain of water except mist on my handkerchief! It was simply beastly. I do hope you won't find his foot broken, but really it did seem to me quite the wrong way round."

"Well, I must get on and see to this wounded man--as for you, Miss Pam, perhaps Miss Chance will kindly act deputy for me and see that you have some strong soup and go to bed early."

He went on, thinking as he walked--not about Reuben Ensor. He was certain Pamela had kept back some important detail of her adventure. He knew the Beak. He knew the physical powers of a girl like Pamela, and the dead weight of a boy of six years old.

What was she keeping back, and why?

Meanwhile Pamela, having had quite enough of questions, and being heartily sick of giving answers with a reserve behind, changed the subject completely by demanding explanation from Miss Chance as to why and wherefore she was--where she was? Also what had become of the boat.

The Floweret fell into the trap all standing--never seeing that it was intended to draw her mind from the Beak question. She had a very pallid countenance. Pamela had noticed that when they met; and she proceeded to explain it by the story of the day's sail.

Salterne, she said, was delightful. She had shopped to her heart's content; all the parcels were on the yawl. The sail down the river too was perfectly charming.

"Do you know, dear Pamela," said poor Miss Chance, "I felt quite sure I should prove a most competent sailor, and become quickly inured to the ups and downs of sea-life. Indeed, I told dear Adrian that I hoped to enrol myself as one of the crew of the Messenger now that Sir Marmaduke has lent her to the family. Adrian did not say much, and I must admit that when I got outside--I mean when the yacht was really at sea--it became a different matter."

"Were you bad--sick, I mean?" asked Pamela.

"Oh, very."

"How wretched for you. I am so sorry, Miss Chance, but you know one does get like that--when it is jumpy, and when it's very calm too. You mustn't mind about it. Nelson used to be sick, didn't he?"

"The great sailor Collingwood was martyr to mal de mer. Yes, dear, one must comfort oneself with such examples. And really," added Miss Chance with a touch of very earnest feeling, "I feel rather thankful that, unlike them, my duty does not oblige me to pursue the experiment. My work lies on land, and I think I shall remain on terra firma in future."

"Shan't you try sailing any more then?" asked Pamela in rather an innocent voice.

"No, dear, I think not," answered Miss Chance with fervour.

"But where is Messenger?" went on Pam, "I can see they dropped you at the Ramsworthy Cove, but what are they doing? Coming home, or going back?"

"They'll come home if they can," informed Hughie, speaking for the first time; "but Addie thought the tide mightn't last out. If it doesn't, I'm to tell Mum not to bother, because they'll just run back to the harbour and anchor inside the bar. It would be ripping. I wish I could have stayed."

"Mother might have worried about your being on the yawl, anchored out," said Pamela.

"She needn't," said Hughie rather sorrowfully--then he went on with more vigour, "some day I shall anchor in all sorts of places. In the Nile, and in the Zambesi, and in the Lawrence, and in the Danube, and crowds besides. It's only just waiting till then. I don't much care."

In a spirit of philosophy he lapsed into silence, opening the gate on to the Bell House lawn with an absent air.

There was so much to tell Mrs. Romilly that her attention was distracted from the possible troubles of the yawl; besides, Miss Chance was so very sincere in her assurances about the calm.

Pamela added that it was as safe inside the bar of Salterne river as at the bridge.

"Much safer than Bell Bay."

"Addie says they'll come on the very early tide and be here by seven o'clock," Hughie repeated his message with care. "He says there is always a breeze in the very earliest morning."

"Did he tell you to tell me that, darling?" asked his mother, looking into the earnest eyes that held hers.

"He told me, because Miss Chance was so awfully sick that she couldn't listen," answered Hughie.

Pamela said she would go to bed when Hughie did, and as Major Fraser's order was definite, she had the soup and went. About that part of the adventures related to her, the point most tragic, in Mrs. Romilly's opinion, was Reuben's injured foot. She was deeply distressed about Mrs. Ensor, and made plans for sending up in the morning--inquiries and dainties.

"How fortunate we are to have such a doctor as Major Fraser resting here," she said to Miss Chance, "how thankful I am dear Pam heard the child. He might have died. I don't know the Beak, Miss Chance, is it very steep?"

The Floweret opined that it was certainly steep, she also mentioned the detail of the petticoat sling.

"Pamela told me that was how she managed to get the boy up, it was a most original idea you know, Mrs. Romilly, but Pam is so full of resource, dear child--it is wonderful. When we met Major Fraser he was in a hurry, but he asked questions. I rather fancied he was surprised she was able to do it, and you know I could not well mention the means she employed, it would not have been quite nice, I thought."

"I'll tell him," said Mrs. Romilly, "if he is puzzled. Of course, he would be interested to know when you consider Pam's age and limits. It's not like a man. Reube is a tiny boy for his age, but they are all fairly sturdy, and if it was very steep--Oh, my poor little Pam--I wish I'd been there! Yes, she is clever, and so plucky."

Meanwhile the person who was "clever and so plucky" had undressed in the shortest time possible, got into bed and fallen asleep almost before she laid her head down. For once in a way Pamela was worn out; not only had the long strain and hard physical exertion tried her, but she was in a mental fog about her mysterious double.

What to do about it! What to do----

Ought she to tell her mother? Did it matter? If it did not matter, why was Sir Marmaduke so secret, and why did the girl herself refuse to go into Clawtol Farm, and lurk about in this queer way? An ordinary seaside visitor would come to the shore; why then did she never appear in the cove or among the rocks?

All these questions chased each other through her mind while she undressed and brushed out her long hair. Then, just before she lay down, came the realization of one fact. This strange girl appeared only very early, or late--never when Bell Bay was busy with ordinary life. Mollie saw her quite early. Hughie saw her in the evening. Crow and Adrian saw her after dark, very late indeed. Finally Pamela had seen her in late afternoon, but then there was such a thick fog that she could elude anyone.

"Oh, bother it all," thought Pam, "no good worrying any way, one can't do any more to-night."

Then she was asleep.

CHAPTER XI

In which Adrian holds a decided opinion about Pam

No one should count on anything. We say that often, yet we do the opposite. Pamela thought no one could bother her again that night, yet she was wakened about two hours after she fell asleep by the cautious opening of her door.

There was moonlight still, of course. The moon rose later, and was veiled by fog still, but grey light made things in her room visible.

"Pam!" it was Hughie's voice; he slid round the edge of the door, closed it after him, and came towards the bed on tiptoes, a quaint little figure in blue-and-white striped pyjamas.

"Well?" answered Pamela, not in the least realizing that no cause but an important matter would have made Hughie do this. She was hardly awake.

Hughie seated himself on the edge of the bed and looked at her.

"Are you awake, Pam, now?" he inquired.

"Yes, I am--now----"

"Well, look here----"

"Look here what? Why did you come?" Pam was still confused.

"A person threw a thing into my window. It went whack on the floor--not a bump--just a teeny whack. Then I got up and found it. See----" Hughie stretched out his hand.

Pamela gathered her wits together and sat up. Then she bent forward to look, and took the something from his hand. She turned it over with caution, surprised, and still befogged.

"What on earth!" she murmured, and stopped.

"I'll light your candle," said Hughie.

Pamela glanced up.

"Get my torch, Midget, and snap it on while I look. We don't want a candle, it might be seen outside--or inside, for that matter; we don't need an audience."

Hughie did as he was asked, and stood by her side, bringing the little bright light to bear on the parcel she held. It was very small. A longish foreign envelope, containing apparently some little heavy things of irregular size that felt like pebbles. Pamela tore it open. Certainly pebbles, little gravel ones not even washed, were in the envelope, and a folded bit of paper.

Within the note were these words, written in a pointed narrow hand, not like that usual with schoolgirls.

"I wish to speak with you. Come to the Clawtol wood at 8.30 to-morrow."

There was no signature.

Pamela read it twice, then she said in a very wideawake tone:

"Cheek!"

Hughie watched her with interest. He was not able to master handwriting yet, but his wits were keen.

"Is it the other girl, Pam?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Who is she, then?"

"Goodness knows," exclaimed Pamela, "but she's, well--she thinks a most awful lot of herself. Whether her opinion is justified I suppose her friends know best. I know nothing at all, yet."

"Does she want you to do something, then?"

"My dear Midget, she doesn't ask. She coolly orders me to meet her at 8.30 to-morrow--she writes 'to-morrow' and never says whether it's morning or evening--to begin with, that's idiotic! And why does she throw it into your window, I'd like to know? She must be raving mad, prowling about our house at--what time is it--eleven o'clock. It simply isn't decent."

Pamela was both annoyed and startled, at the same time she was intrigued, and a tiny bit flattered. This surprising stranger, who bore a very distinguished stamp on her personality, had picked out her--Pamela--as an acquaintance, not Christobel! Well, it was odd; she read the note again, and looked at the dusty little pebbles in the envelope.

"She put those in to weight the letter, of course--but why your window?"

"She meant it for yours," suggested Hughie.

"Hum--how did she know these two rooms were yours and mine?" Then a light broke on Pamela's mind. "I know, Midget--she's been pumping Mrs. Trewby and Baker--I mean Mrs. Chipman, and they've told her things. Both of them know how we live and what we do with ourselves. She wasn't sure quite which window, so she chucked it into the first one, which happens to be yours. I say though, it's awful cheek! Fancy if anybody saw her."

"Fancy if Addie and Crow were on the yawl and saw her in the garden--I say," Hughie chuckled, "they'd say it was you, Pam--they'd be certain this time."

Pamela lay back on her pillow and frowned.

"I wish she'd leave me alone, Midget. I've a feeling in my bones that she'll get me into a mess before she's done. I don't believe she has a shred of consideration, now she knows we are alike."

"Has she seen you, Pam?" asked Hughie with keen interest.

"Seen me! Why, I perfectly forgot I've never told you a thing. Here, climb on the foot of the bed, and I'll tell you exactly what happened to-day. I was so fearfully tired, and so busy warding off all the idiotic questions, that I never remembered I hadn't told you."

Hughie climbed up as suggested, packing himself like an Indian idol as usual, and listened to the true and complete version of the rescue on the Beak cliff.

When it was ended he said:

"Well, I thought it was fearfully funny that you got up Reube all alone. I've been down there----"

"You have," interrupted Pamela with sharp disapproval, "then you're not to do it again, Midget. Swear you won't."

Silence.

"Well--look here," Pamela compromised, "if you won't promise, will you tell me when you go and let me come too. Honestly, it isn't safe for you. Reube slipped and was nearly killed. Only my going saved him."

"I'll tell you, Pam," agreed Hughie, impressed by her anxious tones.

"That's all right--on your honour, Midget, you've promised. Well, to go back to this woman, genuinely I shouldn't have got up alone with that child. It was so slippery--one simply could not get a foothold to grip."

"Major Fraser was thinking about it while he talked to us," remarked Hughie dryly, "he was wondering, I saw him."

"Well, he'll have to wonder," answered Pamela shortly, "I'm getting fed up with this girl. By the way, Midget, her face isn't like mine. She's frightfully pretty."

"So are you," said her brother with firmness.

Pamela turned pink.

"Oh no--not pretty. I may be interesting--I hope I am. And I know my hair's decent. But really and honestly this girl is lovely--and yet--she didn't exactly draw one. Some people make you love them on the spot."

"Like Miss Lasarge," said Hughie.

"Yes, she's simply adorable--and that reminds me of an idea that came on me at supper. I can't go into it now--but remember to remind me, would you, I might forget with all this rush of confusion. Oh dear! How tiresome people are sometimes--what was I saying?"

"You said the girl was pretty, and she didn't draw you," reminded Hughie with painstaking care, "was she nice, Pam?"

"I couldn't say. She's clever. It was she thought of the petticoat. She climbs like a cat; she isn't a bit nervous--somehow she has a look of being used to it. There's something about her that impresses one--her nose is a bit hooky." Pamela paused and considered the matter, Hughie watched her intently; then she began again:

"She's only told me one thing, Midget, and that came up by accident. Somehow brothers and fathers happened to be mentioned, and she said her father was killed in the war. Just that. She looked so queer when she said it, kind of fierce. She's got funny eyes--dark eyes, but not black--or hazel, there's a sort of tinge of red in them, and when she told me that, the red shone."

There was another pause, then Hughie remarked:

"We did see you, Pam."

"Who did?"

"Why don't you remember Miss Chance said that we saw you in the mist against the sky, and thought it was two Pams carrying something."

"I'd forgotten. Yes, you must have."

"I didn't say a word. She just thought she was mistaken afterwards. But I did rather wonder about it--especially when I felt pretty sure you couldn't have got up the Beak."

Pamela laughed.

"You have sense, Midget--heaps. Now, look here, you'd better go to bed, I'm sleepy."

Hughie slid off the bed.

"Shall you go to Clawtol Wood?" he asked.

"I don't know. I'm not sure. Besides, how can I tell which 8.30 she means?"

"She can't mean breakfast-time," suggested her brother with reason. "They'd tell her we have it at half past eight, and usually wait about till nine in holidays. Besides, it's a bad time for hiding oneself considering everybody in Bell Bay is going back to work."

"So it is. Well, I must say going to meet people at 8.30 in the evening is rather a vulgar sort of action," Pamela lay down as she gave this distinctly sensible opinion. "I don't care about going. I don't think I will, Midget."

"I wouldn't," remarked Hughie decidedly, and went off--silently as he entered.

The crew of the yawl was good as its word, and turned up at breakfast-time--half past eight. Indeed they were in the cove much earlier, and riding on the moorings like a white swan on a pond. It was calm and fresh as fairyland. Mist seemed to have lasted most of the night, but cleared with sunrise, leaving a wonderful feeling of cleanness.

Christobel and Adrian were in high spirits, they had done what they most wished; anchored out all night, and slept on board--on their own responsibility, and they felt entirely satisfied with the experience, also, anxious to do it again. The more they did, the more they might be allowed to do without bother or question, for when Mrs. Romilly understood that they were as safe as in Penberthy's day, she would cease to trouble about them.

Addie shouted up to her window, and imparted news in cheerful tones. Crow went in to have a bath and do her hair before the bell rang.

There was a general stir of excitement.

In the middle of breakfast Adrian said:

"Pam was up as early as we were. I congratulate you, my dear girl--never saw anything so athletic in my life! Talk about our risks! They were jolly small compared to your plan of speeding about all over the Beak at sunrise--jolly slippy hour too."

Pamela sat up with a sort of a start, and sat staring at the speaker while a flush of colour crept over her face, saying nothing at first.

"No good you saying you were in bed--this time," continued Adrian with a good-natured emphasis on the last two words, "we saw you, as plain as we saw the old Beak--ripping it looked, too--didn't we, Crow?"

"We saw a girl climbing down the Beak--who looked exactly like Pam----"

"Well, who else could it be but Pam," interrupted Adrian, "need we haggle over a thing like that? If we were in London, or even Peterock, one might see a few samples of girls, but not in Bell Bay."

Everyone was looking at Pamela, and for one wild moment she contemplated saying she was the person seen, just to stop the conversation. Then she remembered that nothing is so silly--apart from wrong--as a fib, even a harmless fib, because you are bound to tangle yourself up in a network of bother, and afterwards, when you do tell the truth, people will not believe.

"I wasn't on the Beak this morning," she said; "I didn't get up till nearly eight."

There was silence of a tense kind. Adrian raised his eyebrows and looked at Christobel. Christobel winced, gazed at her plate and turned pink. Mrs. Romilly glanced from one face to the other, puzzled.

Hughie came to the rescue.

"Pam got up soon before eight. I know, because when she opened her door I heard."

Poor Pamela cast a grateful look towards her faithful ally.

Then the Floweret--faintly conscious of uneasiness, but believing in everybody's good faith, as usual--burst into the conversation.

"I call that quite an odd coincidence--don't you, dear Mrs. Romilly? To think that Pamela should have risked her life to save that of another, on the Beak last evening, while we were all in ignorance. And that this morning when she was not there, Adrian should fancy she was! Most strange, is it not?"

Nobody entered into argument as to the strangeness of the Floweret's "coincidence", but Crow demanded eagerly what was the story about Pam.

She was told--by everybody except Pamela, who sat listening. Christobel was intensely interested; Adrian asked many questions. Finally, it was decided that someone must go up to Clawtol and inquire about Reuben; then the party dispersed, the decision having been reached that Crow and Adrian would go up that morning, carrying certain delicacies for Reube; and Mrs. Romilly would go herself to see Mrs. Ensor later in the afternoon, probably after tea.

Nothing particular happened to the elder pair as they walked up, taking the shorter and easier way through Crown Hill park, except that Adrian gave it as his assured conviction--first, that Pamela had been on the Beak that morning; secondly, that she had not rescued Reube Ensor.

"Addie, how can you!" said Crow, almost tearful, "besides, it's silly. Hughie heard her get up; and how could she be telling a story about the Beak? Reube was brought up by someone--there he is, badly hurt. I think you carry things too far sometimes."

"My dear friend," pronounced Adrian weightily, "I assure you on my honour that it would take every inch of muscle I've got to haul that child up the Beak."

"But, Addie, Pam is as active as a cat!"

"She may be, but she can't do impossible things. That cliff is fairly precipitous, and the mist makes the whole show as greasy as butter. I tell you, Crow----"

"Perhaps she didn't come up the worst bit," urged Christobel eagerly.

"The place we saw her on this morning is the worst bit--well, as bad as any. It's all bad. What did she tell that lie for, Crow, I ask you? I saw her. You saw her. Rum thing is she must have seen us. She was there the whole time we took getting from opposite the lighthouse to the north of the Beak. Just crawling up and down, and moving along. Why, the thing was patent. It was blazing. I swear I don't understand what Pamela is up to."

Christobel was on the point of suggesting a lame excuse; because she certainly had seen Pamela, when they became aware of a lady wandering over the grass in the wake of a King Charles spaniel whose nose was buttoned up so high that it seemed miraculous he could live upside down, as it were. He was attached to a long lead, and as he ran round tree trunks the lady became a fixture at unexpected moments, because she never let go whatever happened. She did not see the Romillys because she was as short-sighted as the spaniel.

Christobel hurried towards her, with a cry of "Good morning, Auntie A.," unwound the dog and the lady, and started them again on a clear space.

"My dear children," said Auntie A., beaming, "how nice to see you both, and looking so well too, but surely it is not summer holidays yet--what? Ah, I should have remembered. I saw you last week I believe, dear Adrian, before Mollie went. I miss her so much, especially in the matter of Charles and his exercise--I do assure you he sets me at defiance. Indeed he does. The spirit of the age, is it not? So sad! Excuse me, dear Christobel, but is my veil on my hat, I believe Dickens put it there when I came out, I feel certain she must have done so, yet I cannot find it."

"It is under your chin, Auntie A.," said Crow gently and unsmiling, "I expect it got crooked and you pulled it down. Shall I undo it, and start again?"

"If you would, dear, I should be most grateful," said Miss Ashington, beaming, and she stood still while Christobel undid the veil, took it off, and put it on again neatly over the brim of her wide hat. She stood still, but she talked earnestly all the time about land girls and farming, which was her special hobby at the moment.

Adrian teased the King Charles. He hated it, and its way of making snuffling noises and barks like coughs. Auntie A. never noticed that the dog was being teased, but she heard the coughing barks, and said she must go home and give poor Charles some tea made from stewed herbs. She had invented the cure herself. She and Charles drank it--at least it was forced down the spaniel's throat when he became extra snuffly.

"I really think he ought to have something, Miss Ashington," said Adrian gravely, "he sounds as though he'd got congestion of the lungs, or bronchitis, doesn't he, Crow?"

Christobel said: "Oh no, I don't think it's as bad as that," reproachfully, but Miss Ashington turned homeward; she was pulling the edge of her veil--already it was coming slowly down.

"Of course you want to know about poor little what's-his-name," she said, drifting on from the farm questions. "I sent to inquire, because the milk boy told Mrs. Homer about the affair. Dear Pamela seems to have rescued the child in a most heroic manner. So difficult to climb up cliff's with a boy on your back----"

"On her back," echoed Christobel in a surprised tone.

"Mrs. Ensor--or somebody--Oh yes, little Joe said she was carrying the child on her back, and he was unconscious. Really, you know, my dear children, I think steps should be taken to obtain the Humane Society's medal for dear Pamela."

"Isn't that to do with drowning, though?" murmured Crow.

"Well, dear, the child would have been drowned had he fallen from the Beak. It is practically the same thing. I will write to my brother and put the matter before him--something really must be done. I feel that we ought not to lose sight of your sister's courageous act. Sir Marmaduke would, I am certain, be the first to insist----"

She was stopped suddenly by finding herself entangled in the lead. Charles had gone twice round a tree stem.

"Really," murmured Auntie A., "really, this is most----" the rest of the protest was lost in the folds of the veil which was coming off the brim of her hat again.

Adrian picked up Charles and, walking backwards twice round the tree trunk, set the confusion clear.

Miss Ashington did not laugh--she had not the faintest sense of humour, but a very large heart. She beamed with gratitude from a space between the veil and the hat.

"Thank you, dear Adrian, how good of you. We must go home. I feel convinced poor Charles is not himself."

Charles was not himself, if his normal condition was good temper. He was enraged with his persecutor and the worst of it was that he found it impossible to explain, except in snuffles, which did not count.

"Rosemary tea," murmured Aunt A., jerking the string, "or was it sage?"

"I should give him laurel water, Miss Ashington," said Adrian in a serious tone, "it has the most lasting effect on dogs of that breed."

"Laurel water! Really, I must remember that. Thank you, dear Adrian--come, Charles, come----"

She went--with the veil round her shoulders, and Charles coughing defiance at the enemy. Charles had heard the parting advice and knew perfectly well that "laurel water" was only a polite name for prussic acid.

"How could you, Addie?" Christobel expostulated.

"Oh, it does them good--they both enjoy it," said her brother, "you heard what she said about Pamela."

Christobel nodded. She was pleased. There was no doubt in the world that Pam had behaved like a heroine, yet Addie was trying to make her out something of a criminal! The matter was still more decided when the two reached Clawtol. They were overwhelmed with gratitude and honour by little Mrs. Ensor in the first place, and Ensor himself in the second.

These two had removed their son from Pamela's shoulders, and referred several times to his disconnected recollections of that awful time on the cliff front.

"They 'adn't a drop of water, sir," said Mrs. Ensor to Adrian, her eyes full of tears, "if I'd a known, my cup o' tea would 'ave choked me. And boy says--Miss Pam takes 'er handkercher, and lays it on the grass--to get misty like, then she puts it in 'is mouth. 'Suck that, Reube,' says she 'an I wish I could do better for you.' Wonderful I call it. Wonderful. And she nobbut a child 'erself when it comes to years. He's asleep now, missie, or you could see him."

Ensor came to the gate with his visitors. There was quite a ceremonial of respect in his manner. Christobel gave the message that Mrs. Romilly would call in the evening, and the two went off home by the cliff road.

Adrian said nothing much till they reached the much-discussed summit. Then he went out over the ground, slowly descending, looking about as he went.

"Don't, Addie," protested Crow, following, "it's simply beastly. Just look!" She stood still.

After some minutes her brother came back.

"No time now," he said, "but I shall have a try later. In any case though, I shall stick to my opinion. I bet you everything I possess, old girl, that Pamela couldn't have done that job alone."

CHAPTER XII

In which Pam defies the Countess

Pamela was growing angry. This seldom happened with her, because though she had a temper "of her own", as Mrs. Jeep declared, it was well under control. She had a great contempt for people who are angry in a "senseless" way, that is to say, without adequate reason. In the present situation she considered she had reason, and therefore indignation was brewing up into serious anger.

"Why can't people leave other people's affairs alone," said Pamela to herself. What business had this handsome strange girl to mix up in Romilly affairs? She melted occasionally when she remembered the affair of the cliff. It was well never to forget that the cool courage of this inconvenient "double" had saved her from tortures indescribable, and probably death. One must never forget gratitude, and a debt of honour like that; at the same time poor Pamela was grievously hurt at Adrian's suspicions and scepticism.

The worst of it was, they were true.

Addie knew, of course, she could not have done the work alone. Yet she dare not speak. She had heard what the stranger said to Reube--Sir Marmaduke Shard was at the back of this mystery, he was a great K.C. and a person of untold wisdom; if she talked she might set on foot a whole host of mischief; she might offend the Shards and endanger the present joys of the yawl. She might destroy the friendship between the Bell House and Crown Hill.

Pamela's imagination saw herself a perfect outcast, scorned by both families, because she had not been able to hold her tongue for a brief period.

The conditions were quite distinct to her eyes. Sir Marmaduke, having brought down the girl in secrecy--telling no one, not even Mrs. Romilly or his own daughter--must intend it to remain a secret, for the present anyway. And to prove it came the girl's warning to Reube.

It was plain that she went out early or late. She had been on the Beak again that morning at seven o'clock. Now was that by permission? Pamela believed it was not. She believed that her double gave the keepers at Woodrising a most anxious time.

"She would," muttered Pam, with her head against the window frame, "she would--she hasn't got that nose for nothing. She may trample on that wretched Chipman, and give Mrs. Trewby jaundice, but she shan't trample on me. I can't help looking like her, but there it ends--no human power shall turn me into a door-mat--to be ordered about by that nose."

These metaphors were confused certainly, but the intention was very distinct. Pamela had made up her mind about that message thrown into Hughie's window. She was going to proceed on direct lines--and at once. There, in the window-seat of her room, she had reasoned it out and come to the conclusion that she must take decided action.

Nothing should make her meet the girl in secret. She would go to Woodrising after tea, ask to see her, and tell her so, once for all.

Hughie asked no questions that day, he was a tactful child. Miss Chance had a headache, and the two elders were going out in the dinghy to fish for whiting, taking their tea. Pamela felt a pang when Crow said: "Won't you ever come in the boat, Pam?" It looked as though she had private concealments, and the horrible part was that she had--only they were honourable and with excellent intentions.

She excused herself with such anxious humility that Christobel's sympathy was with her entirely. Adrian said nothing.

Mrs. Romilly started for Clawtol escorted by Hughie. Then Pamela Romilly made preparations to put her foot down with credit to her family.

She brushed her long hair, changed her blouse, and put on a different hat, a shady one. She got out clean washed gauntlet gloves, and polished her brown shoes. Then she went up to Woodrising.

She met no one by the way, and all the time was conscious of surprise at her own boldness--for no one can deny it was bold.

Arrived outside the carriage-gate in the wall she found it was locked. There was a pair of big gates with little spikes along the top, and in one of these was a small gate.

"Anyone would think it was a lunatic asylum," thought the girl, and from that sprang a sudden amazing question: "Was it? Was this strange girl a 'funny person'? She did not look 'cracked'," as Pam breathlessly put it, but one never knows!

The only thing to do was to summon Mrs. Trewby by the gate bell. So she rang it. As she stood waiting, she recalled that Mrs. Trewby had told Mrs. Jeep she always kept the gate locked, because of tramps and trippers.

"Anybody wouldn't believe how folk make free with a person's property," Mrs. Trewby had said. "Here, there, and everywhere--and to sweep up after them is not what I'm paid to do." So the gate was kept locked because of excursionists, not lunatics.

Mrs. Trewby came with slow steps, and Pamela heard her sigh as she undid the chain. The small gate opened, and the two looked at each other through the opening.

"Good afternoon," said Pamela politely, "could I see the young lady who is staying here?"

Mrs. Trewby looked as though someone had fired a squib in her ear. Her sallow face and melancholy eyes became distracted and rather frightened.

"Young lady," she echoed, and moved the gate a few inches as though to close it.

"Yes. We needn't pretend, need we, Mrs. Trewby. I've seen her, and she sent me a note last evening asking me to meet her. I must speak to her."

"Sent you a note, miss!" Mrs. Trewby repeated these words in a startled manner. "Who ever brought it? If it was boy----"

In this way Mrs. Trewby let the cat quite out of the bag, and made it impossible to deny the presence of the young lady at Woodrising.

"She brought it herself," said Pamela, "if you want to know how she gave it in, you'd better ask her, I'm not here to tell things; I'm here to speak to her, it's important."

Mrs. Trewby stood in awe of the Romillys, and at that moment she was almost afraid of Pamela.

"Well, miss," she conceded, "if you'll step inside, I'll tell Mrs. Chipman. She will be in a way, but I can ask her. It's no business of mine--what I say is 'attend to your own business, it'll take all your time'--nobody can say I've put myself forward to interfere; it's not my nature; I never was one for forwardness, that I will say."

These comments on her own character were made by Mrs. Trewby as she shut the gate, locked it, and led the way across the gravel sweep to the square white porch in the square white house-front. Here again was a double-locked door she opened, and Mrs. Trewby led Pamela into the dim hall; then, with a murmured assertion that it was not her fault, she melted into some back passage.

In the briefest time, and before Pamela had time to do more than take in the fact that the hall ran through the house to a glass door at the end, and that there seemed to be several rooms, Mrs. Chipman burst upon her sight.

She was a little woman, stout, and extremely bustling and buxom. She wore the style of garment that used to be called a habit bodice--tight and firm, and bristling with bead trimming and buttons. Her neck was short, but she had a beaded collar fastened by a brooch. Nothing on earth could have been more respectable and farther from any idea of mystery than Mrs. Chipman.

"Good evening, Miss Pamela," she said in a quick bustling voice, suppressed to a low note, "I find Mrs. Trewby's communication difficult of comprehension. Do I understand that you have a message for--me?"

"I wish to see the young lady who is staying here, Mrs. Chipman, and to make things clear I may as well say that I've spoken to her. And she sent me a note--I've really come about the note."

"Excuse me, Miss Pamela, might I request----" Mrs. Chipman motioned towards a door with a flourish of her fat hand, and then led the way to it, flung it open and let Pamela pass in, then she shut the door and practically stood with her back to it, thus barring the way out.

Pamela glanced round expecting to find the person she wanted, but there was no one in the room but themselves. It was apparently a dining-room, comfortably furnished in a very solid manner, and having a window at the end looking over the lawns.

Mrs. Chipman swept on without taking breath.

"I realized some such demand from words conveyed by Mrs. Trewby, but the mental capacity of persons dwelling in the country--as a permanency--being to a great extent limited, I believed she had mistaken your words. I am loath indeed to deny any member of the family what would appear a most reasonable request, but I assure you, Miss Pamela, I stand in a position of trust--nay, more--a position of great responsibility, and therefore I grieve to say that I could not accede--that is to say if there is a young lady at all. To begin with I cannot admit that there is a young lady----"

"Then you must be sillier than people think, Mrs. Chipman," said Pamela blandly, "we've all seen her--only the others take her for me----"

"That is so--the case with many----"

"Well, I don't like it then," Pamela cut her short with raised tone. "I don't like it, and I won't bear the burden of the things she does. So far I am the only person who has spoken to her--in our family--but unless you let me see her now, and speak to her, and settle things up, I will tell them all--every one."

Mrs. Chipman tried to speak. Pamela continued firmly,

"I don't want to be the least rude, but if you are responsible and all the rest of it, why don't you look after her? Do you know she threw a note into my brother's window last night about eleven, or half-past ten?"

Mrs. Chipman gave a squeak like a trapped mouse, then she pressed a hand to her tight bodice.

"Surely, surely, miss--I cannot credit----"

"It was Hughie's window, the next to mine," went on Pamela, "he brought it in to me, because it was addressed to me. How she knew our rooms I can't say--but that doesn't matter--the point is, what was she doing in our grounds at that time?"

Then flashed into Pamela's mind the power of the whip she held--she went on:

"What would Sir Marmaduke say, Mrs. Chipman? If you won't let me see her, I shall certainly ask him if I may--and explain matters."

Mrs. Chipman was "taken all aback", like a full-rigged ship up in the wind. She hesitated.

"Far be it from me, Miss Pamela, to place obstacles----"

"That's all right then," said Pam, "can I see her now?"

At that moment a bell pealed somewhere in the house. Really pealed, with the jangling force of a violently pulled bell.

"If you will excuse me, miss," said Mrs. Chipman, visibly perturbed. She opened the door, and hurried out into the hall, Pamela following closely with interest very wide awake.

Again the bell was rung, more forcefully than ever.

"Dear, oh dear!" muttered Mrs. Chipman, increasing her pace.

Pamela giggled.

But the bell-puller was unreasonably impatient. A door on the right hand of the hall--same side as the room they had quitted, but the last door--opened sharply, and the girl under discussion appeared. She wore no hat, and held a book in her hand.

"I rang twice," she said, "I heard voices, and----"

Pamela came forward. Drawn up to her full height, her carriage and manner were at least as haughty as those of the other girl.

"I was talking to Mrs. Chipman," she said. "As a matter of fact I came to see you, and she was doubtful about it; so I told her I insisted."

"Excuse me, Countess," burst in Mrs. Chipman, "but I must protest now, and once for all against irregular conduct. I stand in the position of guardian. The grounds are open to you, and you have the option of gravitation to any portion of the wood, orchards, or gardens--there is no excuse----"

"You talk too much," said the girl irritably, "be silent. You are not a guardian, you are my maid--Sir Marmaduke is my guardian, for the time. Come into this room, Miss Romilly, I will receive you here."

She turned round and went back into the drawing-room, leaving Mrs. Chipman blown out like an angry bird with feathers on end.

Pamela followed--thinking hard, "receive me! Cheek!" and the other revelation--"So Countess wasn't a dog! I wonder what sort of Countess!"

In the drawing-room with the door closed, the two girls faced each other standing. And Pamela was again struck by the beauty and imperious style of this odd "double". Also, she had to admit how wonderfully alike they were in general effect.

Pamela began the conversation.

"I've come about your--note," she said with a little gesture of her hand towards her skirt pocket, "I suppose you don't realize that you mistook the room and threw it into my brother's window?"

"Oh, the little boy's room. He gave it to you?"

"Yes."

"Did he read it?"

"I don't understand you," said Pam frowning.

"Did he open it when he picked it up in his room?"

"Naturally not," Pamela stiffened, "you don't seem to understand. No decent people open other people's letters."

Countess shrugged her shoulders.

"Just so. That is well then. But if you received my note why did you not come to the wood?"

"Come! When?"

"The hour that I appointed. 8.30."

Pamela raised her eyebrows.

"So you expected me to go to Clawtol at half-past eight this morning, because you wished it! Doesn't it occur to you that you are--well--rather presumptuous? Why--on--earth--should I?"

Pamela fired off each word, as it were, with a separate emphasis.

The girl seemed a little taken aback by this way of looking at things.

"Wretched creature," thought Pamela suddenly, with the broad instinct of fair play natural to girls of her upbringing, "she's always had her own way. She thinks herself a little tin god! She doesn't understand!"

"Can I sit down?" she said aloud, and without waiting for an answer took her seat on a big sofa, near the window.

The other girl moved a step or two nearer, and sat down at the other end of the same sofa.

"Well, look here," went on Pamela, "let's understand each other, if you don't mind, then there won't be any bother."

"Is there some bother?" asked the other girl.

Pamela controlled her temper with effort. The assumption of superiority was so aggravating.

"There will be a good deal of bother, if you do unreasonable things," she went on, trying to be indifferent. "If you want to send notes would you kindly leave them at the front door, because----"

"Impossible," interrupted the Countess decidedly, "you see I am not supposed to go outside these grounds. If I were to walk to your house openly I should betray myself. I do not stay in the grounds of course, because I wish to go outside. But I employ my own means."

Pamela looked at her with a frustrated feeling. If only the girl were not so horribly "cock-sure"!

"Well, look here," she began at another point, "will you tell me your name? I find it a bit difficult to talk without knowing it."

A sort of glint flashed in the stranger's eyes. And Pamela's natural perceptions caused her to read the thought behind that glint on the instant.

The girl imagined she was fishing for information!

"You can call me 'Countess', if you wish to give me a name," she answered, "I have eight names, but I do not tell them to people in this place. You heard my maid say 'Countess'. Very well, then, you can also say Countess."

"Oh, thanks--that's very obliging of you," said Pamela, quite unimpressed, "it's as you please, of course. And after that, to get to the reason of my visit. I naturally supposed that you meant me to meet you at 8.30 to-night."

"Oh--to-night will do," allowed the Countess quite amiably, "I wished this morning, because I was in a hurry, but to-night will do as you have misunderstood my meaning."

"Neither would do, simply because I've no intention of meeting you anywhere, or at any time. It is just as well you should understand."

There was a pause. Then Pamela took up her parable again--rather enjoying herself.

"As I said to you a few minutes ago, why on earth should I? I don't want to be bothered with meeting anybody on the sly--we don't do it in our family. The others would soon notice and think I was doing a low-down thing. I don't know you--I don't know your name. You are no business of mine. I don't care what you've got to say if it is secret--if it isn't, well, be open. That's the whole position, please understand I came here because I wish to be open, and to tell you honestly."

The Countess sat still with her eyes gazing at the carpet, her glance had dropped from Pamela's expressive face and large clear eyes.

"You are unkind," she said, after a moment of silence. "I have no one--no one."

She clasped her hands together rigidly on her lap, and Pam saw that they shook. The corners of her proud mouth twitched a little. But she held herself severely in check, and controlled evident emotion.

This was worse than anything to a girl with a heart like Pamela's.

"I'm sorry," she said, "awfully sorry--but, what did you want me for?"

She was annoyed with herself for asking, it was a weakness, she felt that.

Countess raised her eyes to meet Pam's. There was a something the least bit softer over their hard brightness.

"I am troubled," she said, "and wished to ask advice from you. When we carried that boy up the cliff yesterday I dropped my brooch--it was a safety pin of rather large size, of gold, and with my first letter and the crown in diamonds. My mother gave it to me on my birthday when I was twelve years old--I would not lose it for the world.--It was in my blouse--here, you see," she touched the opening of her silk shirt. "I don't know what I should do, I cannot find it--but I cannot offer a reward--what shall I do?"

"You were on the cliff this morning looking for it, weren't you?" asked Pamela, full of sympathy, and realizing the reason for Adrian's attack on herself.

Countess nodded.

"Oh, for a long while, everywhere."

"My brother saw you. They were coming back from Salterne in the yawl, and passed under the Beak about seven o'clock. They thought it was I, you see," Pamela made a little grimace of disgust, "and said what was I doing there? I said I wasn't there."

"Did they believe you?" asked Countess, with a sudden interest that made her seem more girlish.

"Crow did."

"'Crow'!"

"I beg your pardon, I mean Christobel, my elder sister. She is Mollie Shard's friend, and she's going to be presented fairly soon--she's done with school--but we are awfully good chums. She believed me, of course. She'd sooner mistrust her own eyes than my word, because we both know we wouldn't tell each other crammers."

"Is that lies?"

"Yes. She knows I wouldn't. You wouldn't tell your sister lies when you knew she trusted you, would you?"

Countess shrugged her shoulders with a faint air of amusement.

"I have no sister, so--well! But I should tell any person what I like, and whatever suited me to say. No one is bound to incriminate themselves. It is not 'lies', as you call it--that is business, and common-sense."

"Can't agree with you at all," said Pamela icily. "'Business and common-sense to tell lies when it paid'. Nice sort of ideas!"

She sat silent for a moment, then she asked:

"Are you at school?"

"Since I was ten years old, I have stayed--with a family--in England."

"Oh, then you are not English?" Pamela felt a sense of relief, though she always tried hard not to be narrow.

"No," said the Countess, adding, after a moment's pause, "I was to go to school next term after the summer holidays."

"Shall you now?"

"I don't know. I dare say not. I went for a while, it was horrible. I left soon; I don't know about anything."

"No wonder she left soon," thought Pamela, "her talk is simply full of 'I's', never heard anyone say so many." Again there was silence, because it was not easy to keep up conversation; the situation was so cramped and artificial to a girl of "open-air" temperament. Pamela began wondering if it would not be better to go now; she had said her say, and wanted to end it all.

"Well, I'm awfully sorry about your brooch," she pulled up her gloves, and made a move to stand up. "If I hear that anyone has found it, what shall I do? I can't claim it. Shall I give it to the Police--or what about Miss Ashington?"

"Who is Miss Ashington? Don't go yet--I want to talk to you--I want to know things."

Pamela settled down rather uneasily, for the Countess had laid a restraining hand on her arm.

"Oh, Miss Ashington is Lady Shard's sister," she answered the first question simply.

"Yes, of course, but I forgot. Chipman told me that, I remember now. No, how could I tell her, it would betray me, since the brooch is lost on the cliff, or the road. I cannot tell what I shall do--besides this Miss Ashington knows nothing of me--no one knows."

Again she conveyed an impression to Pamela that she was not telling the truth. Whether it was a true impression or not, it stiffened Pamela's resolution.

"I'm afraid I can't think of anything, then," she said, "if you don't know anyone really, and you won't let Mrs. Chipman offer a reward. If I find it, I'll leave it at the door with Mrs. Trewby. And now I must go, really and honestly."

"But you will come and see me," protested the Countess.

"How can I? You say yourself that Sir Marmaduke has put you here, and wishes no one to know. There must be some good reason for him to arrange that--he's an awfully kind, nice man, we all love him," said Pamela warmly. "I won't do sly things against his wish. Why, he's letting us use his lovely yacht now."

"That white yacht is his?" asked the other girl.

Pamela assented.

"And you go out on it when he is away?"

"He is allowing us to use her all the summer till he comes in September--it's awfully kind."

"Then who goes with you?" demanded the Countess; she seemed interested.

"No one, we manage her ourselves. There used to be a man, but they want him in the gardens at Crown Hill, so we go quite alone."

"Go where?"

"Oh, anywhere along the coast here. This morning Adrian and Christobel were coming from Salterne. They got caught in that thunderstorm the other day, and ran in there up to the harbour, left the yacht, and came back by train. Yesterday they went by train to fetch her, and came back early this morning."

Pamela was feeling a little more friendly as she talked about the Messenger. Memories rushed into her mind of the evening of the thunderstorm day and how the others had mistaken the Countess for her.

"That reminds me," she said, "on the evening of the thunderstorm day did you go out--to Folly Ho, on the Peterock Road, and come home late, quite late--half-past nine. Oh, nearly ten?"

The other girl considered. Not as though she did not remember, but as though she was not sure whether she would tell or no.

Pamela got up from her seat and walked a few steps; they walked together to the middle of the room, and paused there to say good-bye.

"Yes, no doubt I went out. I often do," said the Countess rather cautiously.

"Well, Addie and Crow--the others I mean--saw you. They were coming from the station. Didn't he whistle?"

"If you say so, I expect he did. I think I heard a whistle one night."

"He said you looked round and then ran. They thought it was I, and they were cross with me."

At this moment Pamela noticed that the other girl's attention was fixed upon a long mirror on the wall opposite She also looked, and saw the two full-length figures, each with its long tail of beautiful bright hair. The same height! The same figure! The same dress!

"Oh!" ejaculated Pam in startled dismay.

The Countess laughed, for the first time.

Afterwards, as Pamela hurried home with rather a perturbed mind, thinking puzzled thoughts, the picture of that pair of girls was distinct, and tiresome. She did not like it.

CHAPTER XIII

Double "A" and a Diamond Crown

In a day or two Pamela had recovered from those pricking fears. After all, there was nothing to worry about. The Countess would not worry her any more, because she had been firm. "The great thing is," thought Pam, "to be firm. To let people really see that you mean what you say, then they won't 'try it on'." She felt that the Countess had been inclined to "try it on". There was no doubt about that. Now it was ended, and no one a penny the worse. Who she was, or what she did at Woodrising must remain a mystery, for the present anyway. It was tantalizing, but, as the girl had offered no explanation herself, Pamela felt it would be impossible to pry or ask servants, even if they would answer. She was sorry about the brooch, sorry for the loneliness of this strange young person; all the same, she felt instinctively that the Countess could very well take care of herself.

The sun shone, the wind blew, not too hard. Pamela, with something of thankfulness, threw herself into the boating plans, and went out fishing for whiting, which the family ate joyfully.

Three or four days of peace went by, and then a positive bomb of annoyance fell into her pleasure, scattering destruction on all sides.

Adrian put off things often. He forgot, or seemed to for the moment, but never for good. There was a strong underlying tenacity in his nature; he always did--ultimately--what he said he would do. Therefore, after apparently forgetting what he had said about inspecting the Beak cliff, he went off one day before breakfast--after an early bathe--and went down over the ground that had been so much discussed.

The result was startling.

When Pamela came down to breakfast that morning she found everybody absorbed in the examination of some small thing Mrs. Romilly was holding. She, sitting in her place behind the urn, was turning this article in her hands, and Adrian, who had given it to her, was leaning over the back of her chair, Crow stooping over the tea-cups, Hughie enjoying a good view under people's arms, and Miss Chance pretending to see for fear of giving trouble.

Christobel looked up as Pamela entered.

"Oh, Pam--Addie has been on the Beak, and he has found the most adorable brooch--I wish to goodness Mum would feel we might keep it!"

"Why not? findings--keepings," said Adrian. "I present it to Mother. It's a ripper."

"Thank you, darling--but it wouldn't be possible to keep it." Mrs. Romilly held up the small object for Pamela to see.

Before she looked, she guessed, then taking it in her hand saw the guess was correct.

A gold safety pin about an inch and a half long, attached to it, the loveliest decoration, a double "A", that is two capital A's entwined, and above them a tiny coronet, the whole made in diamonds. It was stained with earth and damp when brought in, and Mrs. Romilly, putting it into a cup, washed it with hot water and rubbed it on her soft handkerchief. It was lovely, and obviously very valuable.

Pamela gazed at it speechless, turning it over in her hands, trying to think--but feeling too startled.

"Jolly lucky, wasn't I, Pam?" Adrian bent over and took the jewel from her.

"On the Beak?" questioned Pamela uncertainly.

"Yes. Just the place where you hauled up little Ensor. I 'reconstructed the crime', as the French Police do; result of reconstruction, can't think how you managed to do it! I couldn't. Found it took all the running I could do to keep in the same place, so to speak. Stiffish climb with no encumbrances. Just in a tuft of grass I found this thing stuck; it looked as though someone had dropped it and then trodden on it, squeezing it down fairly firm, but not burying it."

"How funny!" commented Pamela weakly. She felt it was weak, and that made her turn pink. Then, knowing she had turned pink, nervousness seized her and she became very white.

Christobel was looking at her, wondering, surprise visible in her honest eyes.

"I want Mum to keep it," said Adrian, "why shouldn't she? It's a mystery how it got there. It may have been stuck in that tuft for years. The person who owned it may be dead."

"Oh no, we must hand it over to the Police," said Mrs. Romilly. There was a general cry of "oh Mother!" as she took the brooch back again into her hand, and examined h even more critically. In that moment a thought struck her, and she looked up at her eager family.

"Crow dear--why shouldn't it be Auntie A's? Why, of course, my dear children--why not? Consider the letters, 'A' and 'A' entwined--it no doubt stands for Adelaide Ashington. After all, it is rather rare to have two 'A's' for your initials."

"But, Mummy, the crown----" suggested Crow.

"Coronet? Why not? Miss Ashington and Lady Shard are daughters of Lord Stilborough. They might have a coronet in a jewel, I daresay--just for ornament. Crow, isn't Lady Shard's name 'Amelia'?"

Christobel said it was, also suggested that Mollie's name was Amelia Mary.

"Oh well, then," went on Mrs. Romilly, "I'm afraid, Addie dear, there isn't much mystery.

"But look here, Mother," Adrian interrupted eagerly, for he disapproved strongly of this explanation, "I say--you're not going to make me believe that either Lady Shard or Auntie A. wandered about the Beak cliff!"

"Oh no, not they, of course. But don't you see, Addie, the thing might have been dropped and picked up by someone who wasn't honest. It may even have been stolen. You know how utterly vague they both are, dear souls, they'll forget and never miss it. Then the person who had it might have gone on the cliff front--some servant--man-servant from London, say--chauffeurs, anybody--I propose that someone goes up to Crown Hill and hands it over to Auntie A. It is most certainly theirs."

"Once it gets into Miss Ashington's hands no one will see it again," said Pamela desperately.

"That sounds rather an awkward remark," commented Adrian, as they all took their places round the table.

"I don't mean she'll steal it," explained Pam, very hot and worried, "but what's the good of talking; everybody knows her. Whether it is hers or not she'll forget Mother has sent it to her, and things will drift vaguely."

"What would you do then?" asked Crow.

"Oh, give it to the Police, and tell them to advertise it. Then the real owner will claim it."

So said Pamela in the despairing hope of giving a chance to the Countess, who would claim, of course, through Sir Marmaduke, if she did not wish to appear in the matter.

Adrian agreed with her, quite unexpectedly, for which she felt grateful.

"There's a lot of sense in Pam's notion, Mother," he said, "Auntie A. is no more and no less than the White Queen in Alice Through the Looking-glass--with just as much sense. She's an old dear, we all know--but she'll give the thing to Charles to eat as soon as not; or hand it to a beggar in mistake for sixpence! She doesn't know the difference between her own hat and a church hassock."

"Darling," expostulated Mrs. Romilly, "is it as bad as that?"

"Well, Mum--you know Auntie A. I vote for the Police Station at Ramsworthy. Let me take it there."

"I think we ought to try Crown Hill first," said his mother, quietly persistent, as always, now the idea had once lodged in her brain. "Who'll go?"

A wild impulse rushed into Pamela's brain. Should she offer to take it, and return it to its rightful owner, trusting to the fact that Miss Ashington would never remember whether she had received it or not? But the thought occurred only to be rejected. It wouldn't do at all. It would be horrid, and after all, suppose the brooch was given to Auntie A., all she had to do was to tell the Countess, who could write to Sir Marmaduke Shard and explain that the strange jewel was hers. That was simple enough.

When the party dispersed after breakfast Pamela felt better. The path seemed less encumbered. She decided to write to the Countess and to take the letter herself and leave it at the gate. Miss Chance and Hughie conveyed the precious parcel to Crown Hill with a letter from Mrs. Romilly, and the other two went off to the bay to overhaul Messenger for a grand clean up and polish.

After several attempts Pamela wrote a note that satisfied her.

"Your safety pin brooch has been found on the Beak cliff and sent to Miss Adelaide Ashington at Crown Hill. Because the initials are 'A.A.' my mother thinks it must be hers or Lady Shard's. If you apply to them, no doubt you can get it back.--P".

Having read this once or twice and finding it met the case, Pamela folded the note neatly, sealed it with her own little silver seal, and went out. She did not go straight up the road to Woodrising, but across the valley, round through Crown Hill park, into the woods at the inland end, and down the hill from the station.

Finding the road clear she rang the gate bell with vigour, handed the message to Mrs. Trewby, with the sentence, "no answer, say, please," and departed--not down the road past Fuchsia Cottage, but back up towards Folly Ho, and over the hill behind on to the Bell Ridge above the church, and so home, down the steep to the Bell House--in time for lunch. The only person she met was Mr. John Badger of Champles, a large and heavy man with the smallest possible twinkling eyes. There was no harm in Mr. Badger--no harm at all, he was a kind man, but he had one weakness and that was gossip. The largeness of his body was the very opposite extreme to the size of his mind--which could not well have been smaller. He was driving sheep from one fenced bit of his fields to another--there was not much for them to eat on the Bell Ridge Downs and they had to be kept to measured allowances or they would have wandered away to look for something better.

"All alone, missie?" said Mr. Badger in friendly spirit.

"I like walking alone," answered Pamela.

"Well, well, no harm can't come to you these parts. No tramps don't come up along these ways. You don't see no strangers about--can't call Mrs. Chipman to Woodrising a stranger, same as she lived down along Crown Hill some fifteen years."

"Oh," murmured Pamela, which was hardly a remark at all, but she felt as though her mind had best remain a blank to all these questions. As for discussing them, she did not wish to think about them, even.

"What a lovely view there is from here, Mr. Badger!" she rushed into generalities, "don't you wonder if sheep see anything? Can they enjoy a view, or do they see nothing at all?"

Mr. Badger opined that all the sheep cared about was a "belly-full", which was no doubt very true.

Pamela left him gazing after her, and wondering why she had come up there all alone. Mr. Badger saw mysteries and scandals in every movement of his neighbours, which made life very interesting for him.

Pamela could see "plumb down" into Bell Bay as she went lower and lower on a slope that rivalled the Beak, but was better holding-ground because of ferns and stubby gorse. It seemed as though you could take a flying jump on to the roof of the Bell House, among the twisted chimneys. She could see the Messenger at her moorings, looking like the loveliest toy--white deck, white hull, and gold line glittering in the sunshine. She saw the dinghy put off from her and come ashore--infinitely tiny, with wee figures rowing, dressed in white, Addie and Crow. She heartily wished that brooch had never been found; or if it was to be found, that it might have been her fate to find it. It was bad luck Adrian coming into the muddle. However, the Countess had only to write to Sir Marmaduke and he could claim the jewel from Auntie A. and settle the whole affair within three days. It was no use bothering about it any longer.

In this mood Pamela arrived at home, looking lovely and happy, only to be at once reminded of the business again by Miss Chance's report.

She and Hughie came across the lawn with the others, and the first thing Pam heard was Adrian's eager information to his mother, who was sitting on the terrace outside the drawing-room windows.

"Mother, the Floweret says Auntie A. swears it isn't hers. She'll have to give it up."

"But is it Lady Shard's?" asked Mrs. Romilly.

"Miss Ashington appeared uncertain as to that--indeed she was a little confused----"

"She always is," Adrian interrupted.

"Hush, Addie; let Miss Chance tell me what was said."

"It really was not easy to gather her opinion, dear Mrs. Romilly, because it seemed that Miss Ashington had been administering a decoction of herbs--I think on Adrian's advice--to the spaniel. She was anxious and perturbed as she thought the poor dog was suffering."

"Oh, laurel water! My only aunt, what a priceless situation!" murmured Adrian, and collapsed on the grass.

"I hope he won't die," said Crow, anxiously.

"What did Addie advise?" inquired her mother.

Christobel was careful.

"Mummy, she told us she was going to make tea out of sage or--I don't know--some filth she'd heard or read about it. I expect she's given Charles a dose; I don't wonder he's in pain. But, Miss Chance, did she say anything about Lady Shard and the brooch? That is the thing that matters."

"I understood her to say that she would inquire, but her conversation was disconnected."

"You bet it was," said Adrian from his seat on the edge of the terrace.

"We must leave it for the present. There's the lunch bell--hurry, everybody," advised Mrs. Romilly, getting up and passing an arm through Christobel's.

"Mother, I wish we'd never sent it to Crown Hill," said Crow, as they went in at the big window. "Will you promise to ask about its fate? Don't let's lose it. After all, Addie found it, and failing an owner he ought to have it."

Mrs. Romilly promised to ask after a decent interval, and the matter dropped for the moment.

Nothing more happened about it except that, missing Hughie, Pamela sought him in "the cave" later on, where he was absorbed in making a doll's ulster out of a bit of checked fluffy material that had been given to Hennery Doe to make strips of, wherewith to fasten down the arms of plum trees on the north wall. Hughie, seeing infinite possibilities in the bit of stuff, had calmly annexed it, and it was now taking shape, the "arm-sleeves" proving a tough problem, owing to the thickness of the stuff and the smallness of the doll.

"Well," said the workman, when Pam looked over the barrier.

"There's a new bother, Midget."

"I know. I saw your face. Is it about that girl?"

Pamela explained about the brooch; telling the story of it.

"It's rather tiresome," allowed Hughie, turning the coat inside out.

"I wonder what she'll do?" Pam's tone was worried.

"She might go and ask for it."

"She couldn't ask Miss Ashington, she doesn't know her," said Pamela quickly.

"She's the kind of person who might do things you didn't think about. I don't care for that sort of girl." Hughie spoke as one with life-long experience. "You'd better look out, Pam."

"How can I look out?" retorted Pamela almost irritably. She was never cross with Hughie.

"Well," said the Midget, recognizing that she had much excuse, "we may as well both look out, for I'm pretty sure she's rather a tiresome person."

That was all the comfort Pamela received, but poor as it was, in a way it did comfort her; there was something so imperturbable about Hughie, it made her feel less inclined to exaggerate.

Evening fell, rather dark, because the moon rose late. Miss Adelaide Ashington sat outside in the broad tessellated piazza, that ran along the south-west front of Crown Hill house. It was a handsome house; white, in the Italian style; the gardens were beautiful when in good order. Auntie A. had her breakfast outside as a rule, often her tea--but not dinner, because lights being necessary--for eating at any rate, when your dinner-hour is late--she was afraid moths and other creatures would fly into the lamps. So she sat out after dinner, in the growing shadows, sipped coffee, and comforted Charles, who was recovering from internal disorder.

A tall slim figure came towards her from the gardens, walking with easy assurance among the shadowy flowerbeds. Charles heaved himself up on his cushion, and barked weightily in a strangled manner. Miss Ashington, looking about for the cause, said:

"Well--well--well--it's only our dear Pamela--what a fuss--what a fuss."

Charles choked in his endeavours to express disapproval, and "our dear Pamela" came up to the piazza and greeted his mistress.

She said it was a lovely evening, but her feet were wet with the dew; she leaned against a pillar, and, turning up one slim foot, looked at the sole of her shoe. Miss Ashington looked at it also, in a vague kind of manner--she could not see, but she was disturbed to know it was wet.

"Surely it is late for you to be out, dear child," said Auntie A., "hush, Charles, be quiet, you know very well who it is--now let me call Dickens and she will find you dry shoes--what about Mollie's--I really cannot allow----"

"But I must go back at once," said the girl, "please do not call anyone," as Miss Ashington hunted on her table for the brass hand-bell that was supposed to be at her elbow, but was always underneath other things, "please do not. I came from my mother to say, may she have the safety-pin brooch with the diamond crown that Adrian found on the cliff--that she sent to you--because the owner is found."

"Ah, the brooch with A initials--yes--yes--yes--now where," murmured Auntie A. "I think I had better ring for Dickens----" she hunted for the bell and the table fell over.

Charles coughed himself into convulsions.

"Dear, dear--if you can find the bell--please ring it, dear child."

"Dear child" was on her knee hunting, with the bell safely covered by her skirt. She was searching among the overturned articles with the desperate hope of finding what she came for, instinct suggesting that it might easily be actually on the table.

It was. That is to say, it had been put into Miss Ashington's wicker work-basket, which, having fallen over also, upside down, had emptied its contents on the tiled floor. The brass bell clattered, the reels of cotton spun about driving Charles into delirium, but the searcher cared for none of these things, for she had seen the sudden glint of the diamonds in a ray of light that the drawing-room lamps threw out across the pavement.

"Here it is," she said, with a ring of joy in her voice, "let me make this right."

She set the table up, bundled the obvious contents of the work-basket back into place, seized the papers, books, wool, finally the bell--and put them on the table--in doing so she rang the bell, and on the instant was upon her feet, straightening her shady hat.

"Thank you, thank you, Miss Ashington--and I must now go--my shoes are so wet. You will forgive me that I go at once."

A maid appeared, coming out of the window in answer to the bell summons.

As Miss Ashington looked round to speak to her, Pamela melted into the shadows like a wraith.

"Is that you, Farr?" Auntie A. was rather flustered. "We had an accident. No, I didn't ring--not intentionally--the table fell over. Take care you don't slip on a reel, they are so treacherous and the pavement is very---- Oh, poor little Charles, he was so upset and quite resented a visitor at this time of night!"

"You must have been surprised yourself, ma'am," said Farr, making conversation as she chased reels, thimbles, and mysterious little bundles that were perfectly useless.

"Miss Pamela came for the diamond brooch--I think I told you that Mrs. Romilly sent it to me believing it to be mine because of the initial. Mr. Adrian discovered it--on the cliff--at least I fancy that was what--thank you, Farr---- You see my poor Charles was so ill this morning, that--however, I'd quite forgotten where I put it, but it fell out of the work-basket when---- Of course a summer night is not like any other time of year, but I could not help feeling that Miss Pamela should have had an escort."

"I saw Miss Romilly from the window, ma'am," said Farr, picking up the coffee tray from its special stool, "tall young lady she's growing; very stylish too; 'er 'air is beautiful."