"Shall I keep the appointment?" Lady Vera asks herself many times that
day.
A certain doubt and dread hovers intangibly in her mind. Will she
really obtain the lost memorandum-book, or is it only some trap her
enemies have set for her?
She longs to consult Sir Harry and Lady Clive, but the warning of the
writer deters her.
"She must come alone and unwatched, or she will accomplish nothing."
Lady Vera has a premonition that her friends would by no means permit
her to accede to the writer's demands, yet she decides within herself
that there is really no danger in doing so.
Sir Harry Clive's theory of the loss of her book is no doubt correct.
Some strolling thief, probably the old hag of Hal's story, has pilfered
it for the sake of the golden clasps, and now, attracted by the offered
reward, is eager to restore it.
After weighing the matter in her mind all day, she decides to keep
the appointment. She is most anxious to recover the lost book again,
spurred onward to even more eagerness by her desire to prove to the
baronet that her strange story is no dream, as he too evidently
persists in believing.
Yet, obeying the "still, small voice," that whispers to the heart of
danger, Lady Vera decides to take some few precautions for her safety
in case that treachery should assail her.
As evening approaches she incloses the letter of her mysterious
correspondent in an envelope, together with a small note, saying that
she had gone to meet the writer. She seals it and addresses it to Sir
Harry Clive.
A great restlessness comes over Lady Vera as the hour approaches in
which she is to meet the unknown possessor of the lost book.
With some trivial excuse to her friends for deserting their company,
she retires to her room and summons her faithful Elsie.
Elsie, by the way, has been made happy for life by the settlement upon
her by her mistress of a generous marriage portion.
She is engaged to Robert Hill, the gardener, and Lady Vera has taken
this method of testifying her gratitude to Elsie by smoothing their
path to a speedy marriage.
Now with some little nervousness Lady Vera puts into Elsie's hands the
letter addressed to Sir Harry Clive.
"Elsie, I am going out for a little while," she says, with as much
calmness and indifference as she can command. "I leave this letter in
your keeping. Keep it faithful for one hour. If I return in one hour
you may give it back into my hands. If, on the contrary, I fail to be
here by that time, you must give it immediately to Sir Harry Clive."
The maid looks at her, a little frightened by the gravity of the
charge and by Lady Vera's pale, strange face.
"It will soon be dusk, my lady. It is too late for you to be out alone.
If you must go out, take someone with you," urges Elsie.
"Nonsense!" her mistress laughs, reassuringly. "I am not afraid to walk
in my own grounds at this hour of the evening; I have done so often
before. Do not tell anyone I am out unless the hour elapses before I
return. Then you may raise the alarm."
"My lady, I am afraid to let you go like this," objects the maid. "It
seems as if you anticipate danger yourself; I am sure it is wrong for
you to go."
But Lady Vera at this shows the sterner side of her character, which is
seldom turned to her adoring dependants.
"You will obey my orders, Elsie," she answers, haughtily.
"I beg your pardon, my lady," falters Elsie, bursting into tears.
"There, there, Elsie, I did not mean to hurt you," Lady Vera says,
melted at once. "But you must not try to hinder me. Give me some light
wrapper now to keep the dew off my dress."
Elsie brings a long, dark circular of thin cloth and delivers it to her
mistress with many silent forebodings--forebodings destined to be only
too sadly realized.
For who can tell how long it will be before the light footsteps of
Countess Vera shall echo on the threshold of the palatial home she
is leaving so eagerly and secretly, now, to keep her tryst with her
mysterious correspondent.
Not Elsie, who weeps so silently, filled with strange, prescient fears.
It is growing dusk indeed as Lady Vera, wrapped in the dark circular,
with the hood drawn over her head, flits rapidly along the quiet road.
When at last in the distance she descries the bent and drooping figure
of an old woman, she laughs to herself at the vague fears that have
troubled her.
"Poor, harmless old rogue," she says to herself, half pityingly. "One
need apprehend no danger from her. A few shillings will buy back my
lost treasure and make the old creature happy. I was foolish to fear
anything. I am very glad I came!"