A puff of strong, chill wind----

_Messenger_ leaned heavily to starboard, the flattened sea seemed to

rise up in a line of foam under her quarter, water poured in at the

streaming scuppers--and away she went--blinded--battered--drenched--away

and away like a hunted creature flying for its life.

Certainly five minutes passed before these two adventurers began to take

stock of their situation. So far, they had just let drive, steering the

only possible course, straight ahead. At the end of five minutes the

force of the downpour began to abate, but the wind was increasing.

As soon as speech was possible Adrian asked where she thought they were

going?

The skipper laughed rather tremulously--it had been a strenuous five

minutes.

"What about America? We might call on President Wilson. Please

remember we can go where we please on the High Seas now! No more

permits--no more 'out of bounds'. The question is, where can you get

your hair cut?"

"Anywhere will do between here and Land's End," answered Adrian

generously.

The rain was pouring off his sou'wester, over his nose. He looked very

large and cheerful.

Now this was approximately the moment when Pamela assured her mother--on

Adrian's authority--that the voyagers would be on shore at Tamerton or

Netheroot! It was no doubt fortunate for Mrs. Romilly that she could

not see the facts of the situation.

The straining yawl was driving her way through apparently limitless grey

sea, of which the churning foam was taken by a wild wind and flung ahead

in stinging mist. The sky, so far as it could be seen, was a froth of

whirling cloud; everything was grey and confused--no land--no order--no

outline.

"I believe we are going straight out to sea," said Crow.

"Do you?" Adrian was not impressed, "we may be going anywhere--all ways

look alike. Jolly untidy view I call it! And look here, what about

that wretched dinghy? She's about full up, and to judge by the way she's

towing weighs about two ton! In one of these jerks we shall snap the

painter; and then--she'll sink like a ton of sand."

Of all things in the world Christobel dreaded what she called "playing

with boats" in the open sea, under conditions like the present. She

pictured a sickening lurch, Addie overboard--driving to

leeward--swallowed up in hideous grey confusion, herself helpless! Her

lips grew white, but all she said was:

"Plenty of time yet."

Adrian laughed, flecks of many colours dancing in his hazel eyes.

"How true! And the world before us! I say, Crow, isn't this absolutely

top-hole?"

"Hum--hum--please remember, my dear child, that we've got to come back."

"Plenty of time," said Adrian, echoing her words.

"I'll agree with you, when the rain stops, and I can see where we are;"

Christobel shook herself as she spoke, and then looked in an interested

manner at the wet drippings.

Adrian reverted suddenly to his unpleasant idea about the dinghy. There

was no doubt that she was a serious pull back--a heavy and dangerous

drag on the yacht. Crow saw it was inevitable, so she made her

conditions. Adrian should bail out if she might bring _Messenger_ up

into the wind and lie-to, while he chose to poise himself in critical

attitudes.

"Otherwise, I simply won't," declared the skipper with decision.

Adrian saw no necessity, of course. There was more zest in a really

dangerous operation! However, he made no objection and Crow put the

helm hard down. The yawl answered like a horse with a tender mouth.

Round she came on a sweeping curve, the wet sails first shivering, and

then giving out a succession of loud reports. A moment after and they

were on a level keel in comparative quiet, leaping at the waves with

some sort of regularity.

"Phew! What a comfort!" exclaimed Christobel, stretching both arms.

Then she lashed the jerking tiller, while her brother hauled over the

foresail sheets, and braced in the mainsail close.

The wind rushed by them with the same force, but they did not feel it,

of course, and there was time to take stock, and put their "house in

order", so to speak. Moreover, the skipper had pleasure in the

conscious knowledge that if Addie did fall overboard it would be easy

enough for him to regain the yawl.

She laughed with sudden joyousness.

"What's the joke?" asked her brother.

"I feel like the frog-footman in _Alice Through the Looking-glass_, 'I

shall stay here--on and off--for days, and days'. It's very appropriate

to one's wishes."

"Well, we needn't go home," Adrian remarked as he hauled in the small

boat cautiously, "I mean we can go back by train, and leave the

yawl----"

"Where?"

"Oh, anywhere."

This was not at all explicit, but Crow understood his meaning, which was

that they were not bound to sail back to Bell Bay. They could make some

port, and, putting the _Messenger_ in safety, return by rail.

"We'll see where we are when the clouds roll by," she answered; "it's

not going on, Addie. I believe firmly that we shall have a perfect

evening."

Adrian, divesting himself of his oilskins, and his boots--"in case the

bally thing sank with him," as he explained, made no answer to his

sister's expectations. But about ten minutes after, when he climbed

over the counter, his work well done, he repeated that there was any

amount of time, and it would be much better fun to go home some other

way.

The storm had either dispersed or "gone to America", they thought. It

had changed the whole aspect of the scene into a desolate waste of

tossing grey sea and driving grey cloud, but there was no more

lightning, very little rain, and a mere mutter of far-away thunder.

The voyagers found it was just on three o'clock, and Adrian suggested

they should steer by compass. He wanted to know where it was.

"Mollie put it somewhere," answered Crow, with cheerful vagueness most

unbecoming in a skipper.

So Adrian unlocked the door of the main cabin, and slid it open.

"Wonderful how whiffy any boat gets when you shut her down, even for

half an hour, with everything close," he remarked, putting his head

within and sniffing critically, "commend me to an oil-stove on a small

yacht for an A1 stench."

Christobel sat still outside, waiting. Her mind was much easier. She

realized that all conditions were quieter. She could certainly see

farther. Adrian called out from below that he couldn't find the

compass, so she also dived into the saloon, and hunted exhaustively. No

compass. They decided that Mollie or Penberthy had taken it ashore.

To let in more light upon the search Adrian unfastened the forehatch,

and then lighted the stove, because there was a "wonderful

unanimity"--as somebody said, on the question of early tea, Adrian

declaring he was full of salt, and Christobel that such a lot had

happened since lunch.

All things then being in train for refreshment and start, the skipper

hastened upstairs again, and the first thing she saw was that the dinghy

had slipped her tow and gone off.

She called to Adrian, who appearing with swiftness took a comprehensive

look at the shifting grey waste around.

"She can't be far off," declared Crow hopefully.

Her brother pointed to a dark blot that was heaved up by a wave, only to

disappear behind another foam-tipped hill.

"Little beast," he said shortly.

"Never mind," Christobel urged cheerfully--she detected a fallen

expression on his face, "never mind, Addie, it's nobody's fault. We'll

soon pick her up."

As they hauled the jib over and let out the mainsheet, she added:

"_What_ a blessing it didn't happen when the rain was pouring, and she

was full of water! She'd have sunk to a certainty."

Adrian allowed these cheering remarks to pass unnoticed.

"I thought I made her fast," he said. Such mishaps rankle.

In spite of all their efforts that dinghy evaded capture for twenty

minutes at least, if not more. If anybody thinks this improbable let

them try to capture a small light boat in such conditions. Many tacks

seemed to succeed only in passing just out of reach; running down on the

wind ended in a miss, because the pace was too swift for the careful use

of the necessary boat-hook.

Adrian stood ready in the bows of the yawl, holding to the forestay,

only to fail half a dozen times, once narrowly escaping a dive. After

that he pursued operations from the counter, making Crow very nervous.

"Hold on, child, for mercy's sake," she urged, "do consider wretched me

if you go overboard!"

Adrian was just in the heat of proving that it would be actually to her

advantage if he fell overboard--couldn't he reach the dinghy more

easily--when Christobel, partly by sheer luck, brought the yawl up into

the wind on the very spot, so cleverly that she seemed to stop side by

side with the runaway. A swoop of the boat-hook, a moment's tension,

and Adrian had grasped the trailing tow-rope.

Christobel blew a very loud sigh of relief, she had been very intent on

the capture. Immediately on that came an exclamation of surprise, and

Adrian rose from his knees to see what new excitement was coming their

way.

*CHAPTER VI*

*"I wouldn't have believed it of Pam!"*

The heavy atmosphere of spray, rain, and driven cloud that had enveloped

the yacht up till now was passing bodily over to seaward. From beneath

the curtain of it towards the north appeared--in brilliant sunshine--a

wonderful line of coast showing up in rain-swept clearness. Above it

the sky was blue; the purple and emerald hills glowed in the setting.

"Oh, Addie, what a dream of beauty! We shall be in it directly--just

look how all the murky stuff is drifting away over the sea! I say,

though, aren't we a long way out--miles and miles!"

Adrian dived below to search for the glass, which fortunately had not

gone ashore with the compass. Christobel with narrowed eyes, tried to

distinguish landmarks. The sunlight over the coast was growing stronger

every moment.

After bringing the glass to bear on the scene Adrian gave a joyful

chuckle.

"Who'd have thought it, Crow," he cried, pointing rapidly from place to

place as he named them. "See--there you are! The Beak miles behind us.

There's the Bell Ridge, ever such a way back. There's the

lighthouse--white as a big tooth. There's the high Down up above

Ramsworthy--with the glass you can see the rows of new houses above

Netheroot sands! Do you see where we are, old girl? Almost level with

Salterne Harbour! Here's the Heggadon bluff exactly opposite, and, of

course, just round the corner of that you get the entrance to the

estuary. It is simply the neatest thing in life. Why, I pictured that

we were somewhere between Peterock and Bell Bay, with all the hard work

to do coming back against this northerly breeze--and here we are only a

mile or two from the harbour with a fair wind, and please note tide in

our favour still. Now look here--we chuck Peterock, of course, and make

for Salterne while we have tea--go right up to the bridge and pick up

some spare moorings. Put a decent chap in charge of the yawl. Get my

hair cut, and go back by train. How's that?"

"And wire to Mum as soon as we get into the town," added Christobel

behind the glasses.

"Oh, that's of course," said Adrian, who was restless with excitement,

"come on then, let's have tea--any amount of tea, I'm as hollow as a

drum. Give me the tiller, you've been at it for an age. The stove's

all ready--by the way, I told Mother Jeep to give us about a dozen

hard-boiled eggs, I knew I could eat six! I say, Crow, isn't it the

very limit to come out down here? Who'd have imagined such dazzling

luck. When you come to think of it, losing the dinghy was about the

best thing that ever happened to us----"

And so on ... Adrian glowing with optimism which was his normal

condition--when not in the depths of despondency.

Christobel was supremely happy too. The sun shone. Addie was very

content, and Mrs. Romilly would receive a wire. She made tea, and sang

under her breath.

It was nearly five o'clock when they crossed the humming bar, between

the lovely slopes of Peverell and Tamerton. The wind dropped suddenly,

because the huge bluff called the Heggadon formed a complete screen, but

the tide still acted a friendly part, for, though it was turning

outside, the change was not completed inside, as harbours and all inlets

of the sea are half an hour to an hour later than the main tide outside.

The _Messenger_ swept in smoothly on the top of the flood, under the

most perfect conditions possible. The beautiful estuary looked like an

inland sea, with here and there the long back of a sandbank showing

above the ripple.

"We'll do it again, Crow, won't we?" said Adrian, beaming satisfaction,

"why, it's nothing."

"No," allowed the skipper, eyeing the wet sails thoughtfully.

"Look at the time, my good girl--look! Five o'clock. And when did we

leave Bell Bay?"

Christobel thought it was about 11.30.

"So it was--well, what's that? Five hours and a half--and not plain

sailing, mind you, either--but a rattling thunderstorm, and a lost

dinghy! I call it great!"

Crow admitted that it was great.

"But I'm afraid we shan't get home till rather late," she added.

Adrian briefly reviewed the train time-table, which was decidedly

limited in that part of the world.

"We shall want something extra to eat in the town," he said, "but mind

you, one can do an awful lot in the eating line in ten minutes. I know,

because I've tested. Let's say 6.20, Crow, and get to Five Trees at

about 6.45----"

"Addie, we _can't_," broke in Christobel, dismayed, "we are simply bound

to miss that train. We are going awfully well, but it ought to take

nearly an hour to reach the bridge, and then there's all the work of

stowing, and finding a man--and your hair--and the wire--Oh, we can't do

it!"

"Well, there's only one other train, the last one, what's that--leaves

Salterne about five minutes to nine. Beastly few trains! Well, what do

you say?"

Christobel considered with a disturbed expression of face.

"Well," went on Adrian, who quite refused to see any drawback to the joy

of the situation, "well, look here, Crow. We'll _try_ for the 6.20, and

if we miss it we'll go by the nine o'clock."

There was no doubt at all about the missing. The wind lessened to a

mere breath, and the tide was beginning to turn against them during

their sail up the last long reach. They got to the bridge in a state of

"sleepiness", as the skipper called it--so much so that they had to

submit to receive assistance from a person of the "long-shore" kind, who

had fastened a speculative eye upon them the moment they appeared at the

turn by the big shipyard. He came to meet them, in a clinker-built

boat, rowing weightily--he was very like the men in W. W. Jacobs'

stories. Adrian accepted a tow and the offer of "a little pair

o-moorings where the old _Fair Hope_ lays when she's in harbour".

Adrian accepted, assuring Christobel over his shoulder that it was the

only thing to do, and far the quickest.

The mariner went slow, slower; "slow as the wheels of evolution", as a

certain story says. He hailed kindred spirits on the quay, and the

small matter of picking up a moorings buoy was turned into a positive

function--and would have to be paid for as such, of course!

Christobel groaned aloud, then laughed. It was no use worrying.

Adrian, whistling between disparaging remarks on the manners and customs

of long-shore persons, took it easily.

"Lots of time before nine o'clock, Crow," he said.

They went into the town about the time the 6.20 p.m. arrived at

Salterne, and sent off their wire. After that the skipper resigned

herself to calm enjoyment. The afternoon, since the storm dispersed,

had been so beautiful that Mrs. Romilly could hardly have worried so

far, and the telegram would secure the rest.

Adrian had his hair cut. The necessary feeding was not a matter of ten

minutes, but a most delightful meal; finally Crow rejected a suggestion

of "The Pictures for about half an hour or so"--nothing would induce her

to risk missing that train--and they sat in the station in the warm

darkness. It was very quiet, and sparely lighted. She was happy enough,

but Adrian was rather regretful about going at all.

"I see what we ought to have done," he said, "wired to Mum that we were

sleeping on board in the harbour. What an awful pity. I suppose we

couldn't do it now, Crow?"

"Can't send a wire now," answered Christobel.

"Pity. That walk from Five Trees to Bell Bay is rather a grind. If we

stayed on the yawl we could sail home to-morrow morning."

"We can't stay on the yawl--Mother would be in fits, when we've wired we

are coming by this train. Addie, don't have a fleeting mind. Let's

talk about something else."

But the train came in from Riversgate--they could see it winding along

out of the far hills to the south of the harbour and crossing the bridge

like a mechanical toy--they got in, and went over to the end of the

carriage from which the wide estuary was visible under the young moon.

Such a wonderful sight, with sandhills exposed and a hundred different

channels sending tides out to sea.

"I wouldn't live inland if you paid me to," said Adrian firmly.

"'And so say all of us'," quoted Crow in an ardent whisper.

Then they were silent--looking out.

Twenty to twenty-five minutes after that, they drew into the little

moorland station, high, fresh, and lonely, under the moon. There were

still clouds about, which made the shadows more eerie. It was all

beautiful and mysterious as only the far west country can be. The

brother and sister heartily agreed that the whole day had been well

worth living.

"I'm not sure this isn't best of all," said Crow.

Adrian was planning arrangements for fetching the yawl, and they covered

the long stretch of white road in quick time; no walking is so

delightful as that in moonlight, with all the world to oneself. Owls

hooted from the trees, and in a distant copse a nightingale suddenly

began his song--more perfect for the space and loneliness.

The Romilly pair became silent. Conversation seemed almost irreverent.

They were approaching the Folly Ho turn. Suddenly into the quiet broke

a monotonous light sound--the tapping of feet on hard ground; someone

was running at an even pace.

"We're not the only people alive to-night," said Christobel in a low

voice, "I thought we were."

"Coming from Peterock way," Adrian said, "we shall see who it is in a

jiff; they are bound to come in front of us, unless they jump the hedge

into the field. Sounds like a girl running."

"Why?" asked Christobel, "much more likely to be Peter Cherry, or

someone like that. There are not many girls to run when one comes to

calculate."

They were approaching the turn. The road before them was white and

clear, the trees at the corner looking curiously distinct. With one

accord both ceased to speak, and gave all attention to the light regular

sound that drew nearer.

Pat, pat, pat--fell the running feet, and from the side-road appeared a

figure. In a moment it was speeding down hill in front of the

interested pair.

"_Addie!_" gasped Christobel, with startled emphasis.

"My only aunt!" ejaculated Adrian, "who'd have thought it."

"You see who it is?"

"Rather!"

"But, Addie, what's she doing coming from Folly Ho, this time of night?"

"Why ask me?" said her brother with reason.

"Mother thinks she's in bed, of course," went on Christobel in a

troubled voice; "I'm sure it can be explained, but it is horrid. It's

utter bad form. I wouldn't have believed it of Pam."

Adrian maintained a gloomy silence. Brothers never approve of

unconventional explosions on the part of sisters; especially very pretty

sisters of Pamela's age. It is taken as a matter of course that they

are not old enough for independent action.

With one accord the two elders increased their pace to a fast walk, then

to a trot.

"We shall see her directly," said Crow, "she wasn't going so very fast,

and the road past Woodrising is perfectly straight for some way."

They reached the corner. Ahead of them, some way down the hill, was a

running figure.

Adrian put his fingers to his mouth and made a long, harsh whistle like

a steam escape.

For a moment they saw a face, as the girl checked and glanced round.

But she did not stop, she ran on again, evidently faster.

"Jolly well ashamed of herself," said Adrian, rigidly disapproving.

"She can't escape, Crow. She'll be ahead of us--in sight--all the way

home."

It is a proverb never "to boast", that is to say, never to reckon on a

hope as a fact--lest something unexpected spoils the hope. In this case

the moon failed the pursuers. They had been so intent on Pamela that

neither of them noticed a big patch of cloud sailing swiftly up from the

north. In a moment the moon was shut off, and in a minute the darkness

was pretty complete, for the cloud was a heavy one.

"Oh--dash it!" exclaimed Adrian irritably, "just when we were sure."

"Never mind, we can run just the same. We shall get used to the dark,

and anyway, Addie, _she_ can't run fast any more than we can. One can't

help taking care, when one can't see."

"Hedges are getting clearer," suggested Adrian, "funny how quickly one

gets used to things. This Woodrising wall is plain as the lighthouse."

They ran on--down hill always, passed the long line of wall, and just as

the overhanging shrubs and sheltering height of Fuchsia Cottage

hill-side showed a big black patch on the right hand, the moon suddenly

appeared again, and everything around--road, hedges, bushes, and

towering steep above cottage and church--came out again as clear as a

painted scene.

Adrian and Christobel both looked ahead down the road. It was empty.

Not a soul in sight.

"Where's she gone to?" said Christobel, stopping.

"Don't ask me, my good girl," Adrian was cross, unquestionably, "I

suppose she's up to some trick."

Such a suggestion did not please Crow.

"You shouldn't talk like that, Addie," she expostulated. "Pam doesn't

play 'tricks'. She isn't that sort of girl. None of us are. There may

be something up we don't know about that sent her up to Folly Ho.

Perhaps Mother wanted a message taken to Timothy Batt--one never knows!

The thing I don't understand is, how she's managed to disappear,

considering the road is about as straight as a ruler, and the moonlight

is bang on it, and there's only one way home."

Adrian said nothing; in silence, and at a quick walk they arrived

opposite the shaded gate of Fuchsia Cottage. Here Christobel stopped

again. "She can't have sunk through the earth, Addie, and she wouldn't

have jumped the hedge! I believe she went in here. Mother may have

given her a message to the Little Pilgrim--why not?"

"Why not, of course!" echoed Adrian dryly. "The sort of thing Mother

would do--considering it's just on ten o'clock."

There was so much truth in this, that Christobel did not make any reply

to it--she said:

"I'm just going to ask," and opened the gate.

They went up the path, mounted three short flights of brick steps that

cut the three little terraces, and found themselves at a deep porch half

buried in roses. Apparently Miss Lasarge heard them coming, for she

appeared on the threshold of the pretty sitting-room-hall.

"This _is_ nice, dear children," she said in the eager sweet voice that

was one of her attractions, "come into the dining-room--the cocoa is

just ready."

That was the cottage. A good-sized sitting-room hall with windows

looking two ways, and a cosy little dining-room. Three bedrooms above.

There was also the kitchen, where reigned Lizzie Sprot, a sturdy

west-country young woman, who had lived eleven years with Miss

Anne--from the age of seventeen. Lizzie Sprot had gone to bed, she

always went when she had taken in the cocoa, and left Miss Anne to sit

up and write letters as a rule.

"Is Pam here?" asked Christobel, as they followed the slim, grey figure

into the dining-room, yet even as she asked the question she felt

instinctively it was a foolish one.

"Is who here, dear? Sit down now, both of you--that's right. Two cups

from the corner cupboard, please, Crow--that is delightful. Now, what

is it you were asking--something about Pam?"

Christobel asked again. Adrian said nothing, except to corroborate his

sister's story.

"So you think you saw Pamela come down the Folly Ho turn, and

go--towards home?"

Now Miss Lasarge said this, a mere repetition of what she had just been

told, in rather an uncertain tone.

Adrian said afterwards, that anyone could see she thought it was

objectionable, but did not like to say so.

Christobel looked a bit anxious, but went straight to the point with the

sincerity that was part of her sterling character.

"We don't _think_, Little Pilgrim, we know. The moon was bright, and

the road clear as day. Addie whistled to her, and she looked round. We

saw her look over her shoulder at us, but instead of stopping she only

ran faster."

"Oh, that doesn't sound like Pam," murmured Miss Anne.

"But it _was_ Pam," asserted Crow.

"Don't you think you might easily have mistaken some other girl for

Pamela, dear? Moonlight is very deceptive--and you said that a cloud

came directly after and obscured your vision. Really, I can't help

feeling----"

"It was Pamela right enough, Miss Anne," said Adrian firmly; "she was as

plain as a hayrick, pig-tail and all. No other girl in Bell Bay has

hair like Pamela. Besides, when it comes to that, what other girls are

there about? Mollie Shard is not here now, and if she were, she isn't

the least like Pam."

There was a pause. Christobel set her cup on the table and half rose.

"You needn't go for a few minutes," suggested Miss Anne, "Mother won't

be anxious. She got your wire, I know, because I was there when it

came."

Christobel asked if Mrs. Romilly was anxious during the thunderstorm;

and recounted their adventure in a few words--as matter of fact, the

yawl affair had been driven out of her mind by this business about

Pamela.

"It was a horrid storm here," said Miss Lasarge, apparently pleased to

talk about something else, "terribly noisy, and very heavy rain. But I

understood that your mother wasn't really anxious. She hoped you were

on shore--then it came fine--so lovely, too--I never saw anything like

the colours--land and sea."

Christobel stood up to go. She apologized again for calling in at such

an hour.

"We only just thought there was a chance of Pam--having come in with a

message----"

"I'm _sure_ you'll find it was all right, dear Crow," said Miss Lasarge,

kissing her; "I--I expect it was somebody else. You'll find Pam is in

bed and asleep, unless she is sitting with your mother."

"No doubt we shall find Pam is in bed, and she'll tell us she's asleep,"

said Adrian, as they went out through the gate.

"Oh, don't, Addie," begged Christobel, "I'm sure there's an

explanation."

Silence ensued, then she continued:

"Didn't you think Miss Anne was a tiny bit--well--confused? I thought

so."

"_I_ thought she believed it was Pamela, but tried not to believe it,

and was hunting round for excuses anyway. She certainly seemed a bit

uncomfortable--besides, it's sheer rubbish to tell us it might be

somebody else. She knows and we know that there isn't anybody else.

But she's an awfully kind person--in fact, she's a regular little saint,

she can't bear to think anybody is wrong."

As they were opening the big gates at the end of the drive, Christobel

asked:

"Shall we tell Mother? What _ought_ we to do about it?"

"You mean about seeing Pam?"

"Yes. Suppose we find Mother knows nothing and is secure and

comfortable as usual, and that Pam is up in her room. Well, what ought

we to do?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Adrian irritably, "it's sickening. One can't go

clacking to Mother about Pam--it simply isn't done," he shut the gates

with a vicious snap.

"That's what I thought," Crow was relieved, "let's wait and see what Pam

says--I'll go and ask her to-night."

"Just as you like," agreed Adrian indifferently, and they went in.

Mrs. Romilly was reading the paper; she was delighted to see them, and

eager to hear all details. She said she had not been anxious, because

Pam told her they proposed landing if the weather was bad. At this

point Adrian turned his head discreetly to conceal a smile. When the

storm passed she had been quite happy; and, when the telegram came, had

considered it all a most wise arrangement.

"Your hair looks so nice, darling," she said, looking approvingly at

Adrian's sleek head.

Pleading sleepiness the two went off to bed, and on the landing upstairs

Christobel said: "Wait a minute," and slipped down to Pamela's room at

the end.

She knocked. There was no answer, so she opened the door gingerly, and

put her head into the opening. A long heap in the bed stirred, and

turned over with a jerk.

"Hullo, who is it; what do you want, Hughie?" demanded Pamela in the

slurring tones of one but half awake.

"It's not Hughie--it's Crow. I just peeped in to see if you were

awake," said Christobel, not at all pleased with herself, because she

felt a wee bit mean.

"Oh, you're back. That's all right. I'm so glad. Did you have a jolly

time?"

"Awfully jolly--after the thunder cleared," said Crow.

"Tell me about it to-morrow. Good-night, Crow," murmured Pamela

sleepily, and relapsed into slumber.

In the passage Christobel whispered to Adrian:

"She was sound asleep--_sound_. I woke her, but she was only half

awake."

Adrian whistled softly, and departed to his room without comment.

*CHAPTER VII*

*Confidences in "the Cave"*

A journey to Salterne next day was out of the question, because the

weather had taken the bit between its teeth and was behaving badly.

This happens so often after a thunderstorm that nobody was surprised;

everyone simply looked out for something to do. Adrian plunged with

vigour into a brief spell of mowing. It seemed wise to grapple with the

rapidly growing grass while there was nothing better on hand.

Christobel, feeling uneasy, sought an opportunity for private

conversation with her sister. She was uneasy, because she believed it

was somehow all right--though it looked all wrong--and she didn't know

how to begin.

Pamela was alone in the library, sitting in the biggest leather chair

after a style of her own, that is, inside the chair with her long slim

legs hanging over the arm, and her knees forming a satisfactory rest for

the inevitable book.

Christobel entered on this scene of peaceful comfort with a direct

question, after her way:

"Oh, Pam, there you are. I rather wanted to ask you something."

She shut the door, and came forward to take a seat on the edge of the

writing-table, near the big chair.

Pamela glanced at her and detected mystery. She did not say so, though,

but let her gaze rest again on the interesting page and murmured:

"All right. Fire away."

"You don't mind my asking, Pam, but did Mother send you out--send you

anywhere--last night?"

The inquiry was made awkwardly. Crow flushed rather pink.

"How do you mean?"

Pamela's intent blue gaze was raised, and she looked curiously at her

sister's face.

"How do you mean 'send me out', Crow?"

"Well, is there any mystery about it?"

"About what?"

"About you being out last evening?"

Pamela remained silent for quite a minute; she was reviewing swiftly in

her mind what the time was when she had returned from Woodrising--after

her ineffective search-visit. Eight o'clock! She was back before eight,

of course, because supper was timed for eight and she was in--with a

brief period for dressing.

After that pause she answered:

"I don't know what you are driving at, my dear Crow."

But of course Christobel had noticed the hesitation. It made her feel

rather stronger.

"Do you mind telling me when you did come in, Pam? I ask for a reason."

"Well, if you seriously want to know," answered the younger girl rather

stiffly, "I was in just in time to change for supper--and supper was at

eight o'clock--later than usual. That was because Mum had put the food

back thinking you and Addie would be home."

"Ten to _eight_?"

"Well, why not? It was nearly dark, but the moon had begun--besides,

we'd been mewed up indoors an awful lot with the rain."

Pamela was throwing out little feelers of excuse--as it were--for her

wanderings round Woodrising, in case she had been seen. Somebody had

told Christobel something, she believed firmly, and her defensive

instinct made her rather stiff.

"Well, _I_ was meaning about ten minutes to _ten_--not eight," said the

elder girl.

They looked at each other searchingly.

"I was in bed before that," said Pamela. "I don't know the least what

you are talking about, Crow, but you seem to have a lively maggot in

your brain about me."

"It isn't anything in my brain--it's a question of the eyesight of two

people."

"Who's the other person?"

"Addie. We both saw you----"

"Oh dear," ejaculated Pamela in an exasperated voice, "do you mean to

say you think you saw me out of doors just before ten o'clock, because

you may as well disabuse your mind of the idea at once. Addie doesn't

count, he leaps to conclusions. He'd say the Little Pilgrim was me for

two pins, and believe it if he was in an imaginative mood. Well, you did

_not_ see me, Crow."

"My dear girl, I'm awfully sorry you feel vexed about it."

"Wouldn't you be vexed, if people practically told you you were telling

lies," said Pamela, fingering the pages of her book with unsettled

fingers.

"I don't. I assure you I don't," said Christobel urgently "but please

do look at our side of the question. Now listen, Pam. We got in to

Five Trees about 9.25, we came straight along with a moon as bright as

day, and just before we came to Folly Ho corner we heard some one

running. _I_ thought it sounded like a girl--unless it was a boy in

running shoes--the feet were so light. Of course we were

interested--down past the little grass patch at the crossroad came

_you_----"

Pamela made a gesture of speaking.

"All right, then," went on Crow, "not you--a girl so exactly like you

that there was no difference. She had a dark skirt and jumper--like

yours--it was most certainly blue--lighter stockings and shoes--I mean

not black. She had no hat on, and a heavy tail of plaited hair hanging

down. As she ran I saw it swing--like yours does. Now, are you

surprised we thought it was you?"

"What did you do?" asked Pamela.

"Simply stared. Then Addie gave a whistle shriek, fearfully loud. She

stopped and looked over her shoulder, then she ran on. Honestly I admit

we were savage. Just consider, Pam; it appeared to be you beyond

question, and we naturally concluded you were just out for the fun of

it, and didn't want us to see you. Of course it looked as though you

didn't mean to stop on purpose."

"Funny," allowed Pamela in a milder tone, "well, what did you do next?

I suppose you saw where this very surprising girl went to?"

Christobel felt this was the weak part of her story, but she told it

conscientiously.

"I see. So the girl was swallowed up by the cloud! Are you sure you

ever saw her at all, Crow?"

"Never was so sure of a thing in my life," declared Christobel, slipping

off the table edge, and going to the window-seat, where she took a more

comfortable seat, "we saw the girl. Who she is, I don't pretend to say,

as you say she is not you. It was just in that bit of road outside

Woodrising that we lost sight of her. Thinking she was surely you I

made Addie go into Fuchsia Cottage and ask Miss Lasarge."

"Why--on earth?" demanded Pamela, with a little frown of annoyance, as

she shut her book smartly.

"Why? Because I thought you'd gone in there. It was the only way to

account for your disappearance."

"For _hers_, you mean."

"Yes; of course. Only, remember we were certain it was you then."

"What did the Little Pilgrim say?" asked Pamela, with an accession of

interest, as she pulled herself up in the chair, swinging her slim feet

rather restlessly.

"Oh, nothing much. She just listened, and said you weren't there, and

you hadn't been, and she was sure it couldn't be you--that was all. We

thought she seemed rather nervous--rather sort of hesitating--but it

might have been our fancy. You see, Pam, I was so sure it couldn't be

anyone but you, that I had a feeling the Little Pilgrim thought it was,

but meant to hold her tongue. She's such a little angel of kindness

she'd always shield anybody she thought might be risking a fuss."

"I daresay," allowed Pamela in a non-committal way; then she added,

"well, are you satisfied now, Crow? I can only tell you again that I

was in bed--at that time."

"My dear old girl, if you say you were not the person we saw, there's an

end," answered Christobel warmly, yet even as she spoke she was faintly

uneasy--Pamela was keeping something back. She was sure. However,

there was no more to be said. She changed the subject.

"Addie's bathing," she said, "he loves bathing in the rain, and at the

present moment it is pouring anchors and marlinespikes--where's Hughie?"

Pamela was just going to say where she thought Hughie was, but changed

the information to a vague:

"Oh--somewhere. You're not going to fetch the yawl back to-day then,

Crow?"

Christobel said the tide would serve much better in the afternoon a bit

later. It could be done now, but they would have to be home by five

o'clock, or they'd have the whole weight of the ebb against them.

"Better to have an hour or so to spare," she added cheerfully and went

out.

Pamela remained sitting in her nest, swinging her feet and

thinking--thinking. "Then there was something in Mollie's and Hughie's

accusation." She had come away yesterday from her venture at Woodrising

persuaded that the whole thing was "tosh"--that Sir Marmaduke had kindly

given a lift to Mrs. Chipman for old time's sake--being in the

neighbourhood himself, perhaps for business reasons. It was so natural

that Mrs. Chipman should pay a visit to Mrs. Trewby, for they were

acquaintances of old days.

Last night, before she fell asleep, she felt assured that both Mollie

and Hughie had made a mistake somehow--unlikely as it seemed. Now, the

whole thing was awake again, and positively demanding attention. Poor

Pamela felt the least bit gloomy about it; first, because she had read

somewhere that if a person has a "double" in the world they are sure to

die promptly; secondly, because she was becoming a butt for false

accusations on all sides. She felt instinctively that Crow, her best

friend, was a little suspicious, and Addie, of course, would be frankly

sceptical. Only Hughie believed her. Hughie was a very wise person,

not to be despised as a partner in difficulty.

She slipped to her feet, and left the room, ran upstairs, and stood

quietly listening at the top of the back stairs. No one was about. The

voice of Mrs. Jeep conversing profoundly with Keziah, the house

parlour-maid, was the only sound audible. The wide front stairs mounted

from the hall into the long corridor, and were not used by servants. The

backstairs came up from the kitchen passage to a lobby shut off by a

green baize door, and went on upwards to the attics, which were large

and charming rooms, with many cupboards, and the most perfect views in

the house, out of quaint dormer windows.

There were four at least and wide passage space also.

Mrs. Jeep owned one; Keziah and Patty Ingles the between-maid shared

another. One was a spare room for chance servant visitors, and the end

one over Pamela's and Hughie's rooms was what is called a "box" room.

Here was "luggage"--big, old-fashioned trunks, leather portmanteaux,

large hat boxes. Neat piles of cardboard boxes--the sort that drapers

and dressmakers send out--all sizes, and tidy stacks of brown

paper--sacking--cords--all the odds and ends necessary for packing of

any kind. There were chairs with burst cane seats, and baths needing

paint, cans that leaked, and baskets damaged in various ways--these had

waited through the war to be mended, and waited still for workers; Mrs.

Romilly was a most methodical, tidy person and detested waste.

Besides all this was the old nursery property of "dressing-up"

chests--clothes for charades in winter--a rocking-horse, and the dolls'

houses; the thousand-and-one things that belong to a family of children.

Hughie loved it all with a deep and faithful love. Secretly he played

with the dolls' houses, and set the small china-headed dolls round the

loaded tables for their silent meals with affectionate care. Pamela

knew all about these matters, but she was far too loyal to betray the

secret.

When she came into this big chamber of treasure trove she stood still

and looked round. The fact that nobody was visible did not convince her

that nobody was there.

"Hullo!" she said in a low voice.

"Hullo!" returned a small voice in an absorbed tone.

Pamela crossed the room and looked over a barricade of lumber. At first

sight it seemed that a heavy oak dower chest, topped by a pile of boxes,

was set against the wall. It was not. Between its bulk and the wall of

the attic there existed a narrow space--so narrow that it would not

appear possible as a retiring place even for the smallest boy.

Pamela looked over--as has been stated--and dropped a small paper bag.

"I brought you some chocolates," she said.

"Thanks," murmured Hughie in a slow drawl. Squeezed between the chest

and the wall he was absorbed in most intricate stitchery. On his knee

was set a cardboard box full of bits and scraps--both white and

coloured--wee spars, small lengths of catgut, bits of fine wire. Also,

sitting very upright, two neatly smiling dolls, with bran-stuffed bodies

and china heads, dolls about three inches long--the large kind held no

attractions for Hughie.

"How are you getting on, Midget?" asked Pamela with sympathy.

"It's rather trying," said the dressmaker, "their arm-sleeves fray out

of the holes, and the button-holes are simply fearful. But they must

have the things."

"They'll look jolly nice when they are finished," said Pamela, "can't I

help you?"

Hughie rejected help.

"I've made a white ensign for the new boat," he said, nodding towards

the tiny flag that lay finished on the box-top.

"Ripping!" exclaimed Pamela, picking up the bit of work. It was most

beautifully made. Seeing her undoubted admiration Hughie fished out of

his coloured heap a fine cord to which were attached a succession of

wonderful little flags and burgees in many colours and designs.

"Signal halyards," he said, "it took me weeks--and months. It's the

whole code."

"Hughie, you are rather surprising," said Pamela, as she examined the

extraordinary result of skill and patience. Then she pushed the boxes a

little to one side and seated herself on the corner of the oak chest.

"I rather wanted to tell you something," she began.

"I know," said Hughie, adding as she paused in surprise, "is it about

the pig-tail girl?"

Pamela told him what had happened, and what Christobel had asked her.

Hughie made no comment.

"I wish they hadn't gone to Fuchsia Cottage and asked Miss Anne about

it," went on Pamela thoughtfully, "the more people who are dragged into

it, the more bother it will be to----"

"To what?" inquired Hughie, without looking up.

"Well, I was going to say--to find out. Then I remembered that probably

there isn't anything to find out. I mean, if there is a girl she is

probably a relation of Mrs. Trewby's."

"I suppose you think she lives at Woodrising?" suggested Hughie

cautiously.

"Crow said she disappeared just outside that wall--when a cloud made it

dark. _They_ thought she'd run on into Fuchsia Cottage gate--you see."

"I know. It was the other gate more likely," said Hughie in a

deliberate manner.

"Well, I daresay. I don't see where else she can be living. But what I

mean is, Hughie, that it's not exciting. I thought I'd just try and find

tracks--or something definite--so I went all round Woodrising yesterday

evening. One can't get in; besides, I hadn't the cheek to go and ring

at the gate-bell and say 'Have you a girl like me anywhere about?' I

couldn't do it, so I just----"

"Scouted," suggested Hughie, as he threaded a fine needle with silk with

a view to button-holes, "you got it out of your Scout book."

Pamela coloured faintly.

"I rather tried to do as they say in the Rules, but there weren't any

tracks outside. Then I got over the end wall; there was a ladder

against it outside, and I'm perfectly certain Peter Cherry uses it for a

short cut. Inside there was a manure heap--not a smelly one--straw

chiefly for marrows--so there was a good place to jump into. The garden

was appallingly wet; and you never saw anything like the bushes,

Midget--one mass. I saw Peter's bootmarks as plain as a house--and then

I found nice narrow shoes like mine, and made sure I'd got a clue, but

it occurred to me that they might easily be my own feet! I'd been going

up and down, and in and out--such a lot of paths and all so much

alike----"

"Next time I'd put a trail of pebbles if I were you," suggested Hughie.

"You mean like Hop-of-my-thumb did, when he found the birds ate his

bread-crumbs?"

"Or," said Hughie, pausing in his work, "you could blaze a trail on the

bushes. That's easy enough--tiny little breaks in the twigs--and leaves

stuck on the ends of them. I would."

"Yes," agreed Pamela thoughtfully, "if I go again I will. Well, anyway I

had to hide, because two women came from the house and went to the end

of the garden. One was Mrs. Trewby--looking as yellow as marmalade--and

the other was that maid Baker. Lady Shard had her for years, and she

married the London butler. Her name is Mrs. Chipman now. Do you

remember her, Midget?"

"She came to tea with Mrs. Jeep when she was dressed in black. I hated

her," said Hughie, "she says silly things to people about being

mischievous. She calls it 'mischeevious'. She doesn't understand

anything."

"She'd talk the hind leg off a donkey," said Pamela with contempt. "I

should think the butler was very thankful when he died and could get

away from her voice--it clacks. I couldn't remember her at first, and I

was so busy remembering that I forgot to notice what she said--it was

all about people, though--you know how that kind of person talks. They

went back past me to the house, and then the Chipman female began

shouting for her dog, and I was so fearfully afraid of being caught that

I fled along the path over the wall and came home."

"How did you know she was calling the dog?" asked Hughie, opening the

paper bag and looking into it with interest. "How do you know she

wasn't calling the other girl?"

"Couldn't have been; she called 'Countess, Countess, Countess', just how

people call dogs, and that sort of person usually call dogs by that kind

of name; and the dogs are usually big, fluffy ones which never do what

they're told. Oh, it was a dog right enough, I'm sure. Well, that's

all. It isn't a very bright prospect is it, Midget?"

"Not very," allowed Hughie; "what time is it, Pam?"

Pamela, consulting a wristlet watch, said it was about twelve. It must

be, she concluded, because her watch was a quarter to one. "I calculate

it to be over half an hour fast towards the end of the week," she told

him, "then I begin fresh on Sundays. It's a bother, because you forget

and are sure to be late for breakfast. However, it can't be helped."

"Don't tell anybody I'm here," Hughie requested, finishing the chocolate

and smoothing out the bag. Paper bags came in usefully at times.

"Not Mother, do you mean? She may ask."

"I don't mind her, but not the others, Pam. It's impossible to sew

properly when people come bothering about and asking questions."

Pamela promised, and departed light-footed.

In the corridor she met her mother, who promptly asked where was her

youngest son.

"He's all right, Mummy--sewing, in the cave," said Pamela, "and he

doesn't want anyone to know."

"All right. _I_ shan't tell," said Mrs. Romilly, smiling. Then she

asked about the yawl, and the plans of the older pair about fetching her

from Salterne.

Pamela related what she knew, so far as it went. In a day or two the

tide would serve better, as there would be a later ebb in the afternoon.

"The fact is, Miss Chance would rather like to make a shopping

expedition to Salterne the same day--and couldn't she come back in the

boat?" asked Mrs. Romilly, innocent of all this involved--as mothers so

often are.

The silence that ensued was so full of meaning, that Mrs. Romilly

answered it as though her daughter had spoken.

"I think, darling child, that you ought--all of you--to make things as

nice for Miss Chance as you can. There are no regular lessons just now,

because of Addie being sent home, and Crow finishing up at Easter;

besides, it will soon be Whitsuntide now; but I think we ought to try

and make it as pleasant for her as possible, don't you? She is always

most kind."

"Oh, yes, awfully kind," agreed Pamela hastily, "but Mother, are you

sure she likes going on the yawl? You know she'd be rather a

responsibility for Addie and Crow; she doesn't understand a boat, she

stands on the gunwale and expects the boat to wait as if it were a stone

step! She truly might get drowned rather easily, you know, and what

_could_ they do, if she fell overboard?"

"I see," murmured Mrs. Romilly thoughtfully, "yes, I see. Well, she

might come back by train. I'll talk to her about it. At the same time,

if she really wishes to go by sea, I'm sure it will be all right."

To this Pamela said nothing, but she formed an inward resolve that she

would have nothing to do with this expedition.

*CHAPTER VIII*

*"Little Friend of all the World"*

On a certain evening, a couple of days or so after this, the sky cleared

beautifully, and the sun went down with grand promise of fine weather

again.

Miss Chance was correcting French exercises in the library when Adrian

and Christobel entered, very hot and triumphant--the Bell House lawns

were mown to perfection, and to-morrow would suit in all ways for the

fetching back of the yawl.

"It must be done to-morrow," Adrian threw himself with a crash on the

springy sofa, "_must_ be--we can't leave the _Messenger_ at Salterne any

longer. She must be on her moorings by this time to-morrow."

"I hope you will have a fine day, then," said Miss Chance, placing

papers aside in a neat heap, "you had a terrible storm the day of your

last expedition--terrible. I always think though that thunder and

lightning and such terrors must be sent for some good purpose--to teach

us something."

"They teach you not to leave your oilskins behind," suggested Adrian

from the floor.

"Oh, hush, dear boy--is that quite nice?" said the excellent woman in a

shocked voice--and then changing the subject with rather laboured

vivacity she went on:

"Really I wish dear Pam would concentrate more. She is having so few

lessons now that she ought to be giving of her very best. One would

think her mind was entirely distracted. I told her so, and her reply

was _most_ unconvincing--she said if she had twelve times as much to do

she would do it twelve times as well! Most unreasoning."

"I don't agree with you, my dear Floweret," said Adrian, "I agree with

Pam. If you are in for a fearful grind--well, there you are--you grind;

you get acclimatized, so to speak, like people living on the west coast

of Africa. After a bit you thrive on the beastly thing--in fact revel

in it. Whereas if you make a snatch at it--well, there's a hopeless

failure."

Good Miss Chance gave a crackling laugh; she was devoted to Adrian,

especially when he slapped her on the back and called her the Floweret,

or "my good Blossom"--in cheerful allusion to her pretty name. She

plunged into argument with zest therefore.

"The west coast of Africa," she said, "is not nearly so subject to

pestilence and dangerous malaria as it used to be. Advancing science

has taught us how to deal with these things--and what has it to do with

French exercises! I am sure you cannot be thinking reasonably. What

else can be expected from your position, which is exactly the opposite

to what was intended for the use of a sofa."

"I know," said Adrian, "I am aware of that, Miss Chance. But I never was

a Conservative. My opinions might be classified as

Republican-Imperialist. Let me reason with you. If the legs are on the

sofa, and the head is on the floor, blood flows freely to the brain, and

it swells with astonishing rapidity. Result, a vigorous crop of ideas.

I'm full of them at this moment--my brain is, that's to say. They are

sprouting so rapidly that I shall be able to impart to you information

on many subjects in a brace of jiffs."

Miss Chance was about to plunge into further depths, when Christobel

intervened politely.

"Don't listen to him, Miss Chance, he is talking the worst kind of

piffle--suppose we go to bed. Addie, get up, your head was never

intended for a carpet-cleaner. Come along and say good-night to Mum,

she's gone up because she had a headache."

Crow stood up and stretched. Adrian, after a violent effort to get on

to the sofa by muscular effort alone, came on to his feet in the

ordinary way, and proceeded to shake himself into his garments with some

regard to appearance.

"Now I wonder," said Miss Chance, gathering all her properties into

order, and replacing some in drawers, "I wonder whether you two would

give _me_ a lift to-morrow. I want a day's shopping in Salterne, or some

hours anyway--why shouldn't I go in with you--and sail out?"

There was one short pause strenuous with meaning! Then Crow, as usual,

met the difficulty.

"If you want to shop, Miss Chance, it wouldn't fit in, you see we should

have to go to the harbour and get the yawl out--and home. I am sorry,

but really it would be difficult to get time for shopping, wouldn't it,

Addie?"

"Well, well, we will discuss the matter in the morning," said Miss

Chance, not in the least offended. She certainly was a "goodhearted

soul," as Crow impressed on Adrian going upstairs.

"She may be," he declared desperately, "but her good heart won't be much

use in the boat. She'll most likely be drowned, and we shall be

responsible."

The depths of gloom are speedily reached.

Mrs. Romilly was sitting in an arm-chair before a little fire. She said

she was cold after all that rain. She was dressed in a loose gown of

the colour matching her eyes, and her lovely hair--just like

Pamela's--was hanging round her like a shawl.

"I'll brush that," said Christobel firmly.

Adrian sat down on the fender-stool with his back to the fire and looked

dejected.

"Is your head bad--or better, Mummy, dear?" asked Christobel, proceeding

to the business of brushing. "Addie and I have been talking to Miss

Chance, or we should have come sooner."

Mrs. Romilly said her head was better, also that she was very pleased

they'd been talking to Miss Chance; finally she wanted to know if

anything had been said about the sail from Salterne.

"If you go, and when you go," she concluded, "she wants to go in with

you--walk to Five Trees, I mean, and sail home."

"I don't think she'll enjoy it much, Mother," ventured Christobel.

"Why not, dear--_you_ do?"

"Yes, but you see we don't mind knocking about, and wet, and spells of

discomfort--she might be sick, most people are."

Mrs. Romilly was not blind to the trend of feeling.

"I don't see why she shouldn't have a try," she suggested mildly, "if

she is ill, or hates it, she needn't go again. After all, poor thing,

she never has been."

"Well, Mother, you see it was Sir Marmaduke's affair before this, wasn't

it? And such a crowd with Penberthy and Mollie--as he didn't ask Miss

Chance, we couldn't force her in, could we?"

"Well, there won't be a crowd now," persisted Mrs. Romilly, "even if you

all go--only five."

"Only five!" Christobel looked at Adrian over her mother's head, she

said the two words with her lips--soundlessly--and smiled.

But Adrian would not smile.

"If she'd been with us the other day, in the thunderstorm, she wouldn't

have wanted to go again," said the boy darkly, "she'd have been in

fits."

"But, darling, I thought you said it was lovely?" this, from his mother

in an expostulating voice.

Christobel warned, with raised eyebrows, and headshakes.

"So it was when the storm was over," said Adrian, refusing to see the

signals, "but she wouldn't have enjoyed the process of working through

it. Of course we did," he added quickly, "we enjoy anything, no matter

how beastly--but when it comes to being drenched, and battered, and

shaken up, Miss Chance mightn't. And you see, Mum, we can't put her

ashore--that's flat. If she comes, she must come. I can't undertake to

land people."

"You landed Hughie one day."

"That was a dead calm."

"Well, but supposing there is a calm to-morrow?"

"If there is we shall go straight back to Salterne, that's all--and

sleep on the boat," announced Adrian desperately; "surely Miss Chance

would find it pretty uncomfortable to have to sleep on the yawl with

four other people, and not even a toothbrush among the lot."

The unfortunate part of this episode was that it did not achieve its

object, but only succeeded in making Mrs. Romilly firmer on the

contested point. She did not believe in the discomforts Adrian had

mentioned--which were perfectly true, of course--because they had been

kept from her before.

She thought the young ones did not want Miss Chance to go--they

certainly did not, but the reasons put forward were strictly facts.

She was sweet and sympathetic, but her mind was made up.

"Please make it as nice and easy for her as possible, dear children,"

she said; "I depend on you, Crow; after all she has never yet been on

the yacht."

There was no more to be said of course. Christobel gave way without

another word. Adrian was silent, but when they were saying "good-night"

he suggested quite amiably:

"We'll give the Floweret as good a time as we know how, Mum, and by the

way, it's only fair to remember it isn't our fault she's never been out

in the _Messenger_--she's always been away in the holidays when we did

all the sailing--and Sir Marmaduke was here."

Mrs. Romilly protested that she knew all this. The yawl had never been

at their service in term-time before--Adrian being absent.

"Perhaps this is the beginning of good times," she said; "perhaps she

will make a first-rate sailor."

Brother and sister looked at each other speechless, when they got

outside. Then Crow whispered:

"Are we downhearted?" and sped away to her room, head turned over her

shoulder with her lips forming a very decided "No--o--o."

Adrian stood at his window presently looking out at the sweet breathless

night. There was no air, the stars were clear. "If it's a calm she'll

be sick," he thought, "poor old Blossom"--and peace descended on his

soul.

So the matter was settled, and, in order to give Miss Chance time for

her shopping, the young Romillys went by an earlier train from Five

Trees. They did not mind that at all. Adrian wanted to get to his

beloved _Messenger_--the sooner the better.

The party consisted of four--because Hughie was included. Pamela simply

declined. She wouldn't say why or wherefore. She looked at the others

during breakfast remarking that four was an even number.

"All agog to dash through thick and thin," she murmured, "Crow can shop

with Miss Chance and Hughie can go with Addie to the yawl. Three people

jostling each other in front of shop windows is never comfortable, and I

hate sitting on a hot deck at anchor. Home is nicer."

They all went off gaily, Miss Chance carrying a string bag besides her

bag-purse, to Crow's annoyance. She could not bear "walking with a

string bag," she said. However Miss Chance could not be parted from it.

The necessary food was to be bought in Salterne, and they were to start

back after lunch, and come home with the tide.

It sounded perfectly charming, not a hitch. Mrs. Romilly was well

pleased. She and Pamela had lunch together, and the peace of the house

was balm. The day held fine--very fine. About two o'clock there was

about as much air as you would expect under a vacuum bell.

Pamela called her mother's attention to it.

"Oh, I expect they've got some wind even if we haven't," said Mrs.

Romilly; "I shan't worry, and, Pam dear, tea at half-past four, for you

and me--and after that will you go up to Clawtol and get some eggs from

Mrs. Ensor? A dozen or two dozen even--we eat such a lot now Addie has

taken to demanding hard-boiled ones for the yacht. If I can't get

enough from Clawtol, we must try the Badgers at Champles to-morrow or

next day."

Pamela did not mind in the least. She had a plan in fact. Why not come

back by Woodrising? A basket of eggs would prove her business. She

need not do anything--at the same time she felt she could not rest till

she obtained some knowledge of her "double". Having settled that the

girl did not exist, she had been shaken out of that security by

Christobel's surprising questions and confusion of her identity. It was

not possible to pass it over. Fate had sent her another free day, clear

of "family"; she must have one more attempt at Woodrising.

She and her mother followed the thought of _Messenger's_ return with

interest.

"If there had been a good wind they might have reached the lighthouse by

now," said Pamela, spreading her bread and butter with a thankful heart,

"as it is----"

"What? 'As it _is_'" asked Mrs. Romilly.

"Well, Mummy dear, no wind. What can they do? They'll be coming down

the estuary about now--perhaps crossing the bar. Miss Chance won't feel

the swell till they get really out--a good way."

"Are they bound to feel the swell?"

"Mummy, they are. I can assure you it's the sort of heaving that makes

one try hard _not_ to think of bacon grease. If you do, you're sorry."

"Poor Miss Chance," said Mrs. Romilly, and laughed.

Pamela looked at her with eyes that were grey-green--sometimes they were

blue, sometimes grey--it depended on the sky and the atmosphere.

"I'm rather afraid," she remarked, "that a bit of bad luck is coming to

those poor ones. There is a mist. You know how it begins. Bits of

ragged chiffon seem to float past one, going nowhere in particular.

There isn't a breath of air, and yet a cold kind of draught has

arrived."

"I _am_ sorry," said Mrs. Romilly, with feeling, "but a fog won't

prevent their getting home. If they keep close in, the cliffs are so

very obvious."

Pamela made no comment on this; she simply said it certainly would not

prevent her walk to Clawtol for the eggs, while through her mind ran the

idea that nothing could be better than a good thick white mist--such as

they got in perfection at Bell Bay--for her mystery hunting expedition.

She kissed her mother and went, feeling joyous and independent. Her

plan was cut and dried, so to speak, all settled--and when plans are

like that they are very apt to turn topsy-turvy, and land people where

they least expected to be.

Pamela went the usual way, across the lawns, out by the wicket that led

to the beach, and very slowly up the steep cliff road past Crown Hill

lodge gates and on up to Hawksdown. A sea fog has the effect of

producing a feeling of loneliness. It cuts you off, and it makes voices

and distant noises sound different. She went on till she reached the

summit, and arriving there, went along cautiously towards the cliff

edge, to see if the _Messenger_ might be within sight.

The land on top of the Beak was very wild, desolate even; as it sloped

very slightly downward to the cliff edge it behoved a wanderer to go

cautiously. The Beak was not perpendicular. It could be climbed by an

expert, or even an agile, clear-headed person like Pamela, but as she

said to herself, "It was not the sort of thing you'd pick out to do,

unless you had a very strong mood on."

She thought that as she looked over, and out to sea. No sail was within

her vision. The water was visible, but through a fluff of thick white

haze, that moved with the ceaseless shift of a kaleidoscope. Very

dazzling. It made her giddy to watch the curious floating rags of

it--coming, coming, ever thicker. If the yawl were close she could not

be seen.

Of course it will be understood that the bluff of a headland is not a

narrow point. It is a long stretch of wild high land that juts out to

sea. There are such things as actual peaks sticking out to seaward, but

these are rock, sheer, bare rock, to be found--some at any rate--in the

Channel Islands, where you see most kinds of rocky headland in every

weird shape.

But the Beak on which Pamela stood was a very blunt beak. The

lighthouse lay perhaps half a mile to the south--invisible from the

top--and Bell Bay was certainly half a mile to the north; all between

was wild cliff trending outward like a huge bent elbow.

Pamela sat down on a gorsy hump, and looked towards Ramsworthy and

Netheroot sands. She could not see them because of the fog. Nor could

she see any sail. It was profoundly lonely, except for the sea-birds

which kept up a constant wailing cry. They had noticed a human being

appear on the scene, and instantly rose in whity-grey clouds, crying and

screaming, circling round and round uneasily. When nothing happened they

settled down, and presently there was silence again--complete silence

except for one bird, that wailed distressfully at short intervals. From

the sound, Pamela thought it was young--or very old--or wounded. It was

not quite like the others. However, it was impossible to distinguish,

as when it cried all the others rose up and began again.

She sat there perhaps ten minutes, then she went off back to the road,

and presently, at the turning, away down to the farm.

Mrs. Ensor was leaning over the gate with the baby in her arms. She

greeted Pamela with some satisfaction and said she had plenty of eggs.

They went in together to the dairy, and Mrs. Ensor, putting the baby

down, proceeded to pick out eggs by dates pencilled on them. Meanwhile

she talked.

"Suppose you don't happen to have met with our Reube--which way did you

come, Missie?"

Pamela explained.

"I'm afraid he's more like to be Ramsworthy way or, for all that comes

to, Folly Ho. Mischeevious young monkey he is to be sure," she sighed,

but smiled also with conscious pride in the "mischeevious" one. "For

ever up to something--and for _looks_, why there--you'd think he only

wanted a pair o' wings to fly to Heaven."

"He's a dear little boy," said Pamela, "I like Reuben; he's only six,

though, isn't he?"

Mrs. Ensor said he was six, but had "double the years of naughtiness in

him". It appeared that he had detached himself from the party of

children coming from Ramsworthy school, said he'd got enough dinner left

to do for his tea, and departed all alone.

"There wasn't one of them with 'thority to make him do as he was told

you see, Missie," said the anxious mother, "he knows I want him for all

sorts. He's ever such a help. But there, once in a while off he'll go;

he never come for his tea, because he know'd I should catch him."

Pamela sympathized secretly with "young Reube". When she said good-bye,

she promised to look out for him, and urge upon him to return home

speedily. Mrs. Ensor was very grateful.

"That's a weight off me, Missie," she declared. "Six ain't no age when

it comes to that, and these sea mists do seem to worrit anybody, sort of

squeezing you in."

Pamela departed, carrying her eggs carefully, and pursued her way

towards Crown Hill, planning to cut through the park by a foot-track

they were allowed to use, and go down into Bell Bay at the back of the

valley, thus returning via Woodrising "according to plan". The last

thing she saw of the farmer's family was a general action, so to speak,

amongst the children and animals in the "muck yard". Into this Mrs.

Ensor dived, dispersing the contending arms, and restoring order.

"I'm glad I shan't have to be a farmer's wife," thought Pamela, "it's

funny how happy they are." She remembered Reube; then she sat down on a

felled log by the edge of the road to think, for a curious conviction

had awakened in her mind and, as she stopped, seemed to fill every bit

of her brain. Most people understand that feeling of _certainty_ about

a thing they know nothing about. It comes of itself and stays. Nothing

will argue it away, yet there is no reason why it should be there.

Now the conviction that had taken possession of Pamela's mind was this:

"Young Reube" was in serious trouble on the rugged point of the Beak.

And the queer intermittent cry, that she had noted as distinguished from

the other bird cries, was the despairing voice of the child calling

faintly.

There was no reason at all for this conviction except that Reube had not

come back to tea, yet Pamela was convinced it was exactly as she

pictured. She sat on for a few minutes thinking. She did not want to

give up her plan at all. It was, in fact, a blow--then the danger of

going down the Beak was considerable. Pam reviewed the idea of going to

Bell Bay and trying to find a man. There was Major Fraser--he would

have gone, but he was still lame. Adrian would have gone, but he was on

the sea.

Suddenly she remembered that the first duty of a Girl Guide was to help

anyone in distress, danger unconsidered. "Little Friend of all the

World" was the very pith of the whole matter, "Be prepared" the motto,

and secret sign.

Most surely there was only one thing to be done and that was to go and

see, and take immediate action if necessary.

As she came to this conclusion, she straightened her shoulders and sat

upright. She had been leaning forward with elbows on knees, chin in

hands. And, as she moved, she heard a noise close by, and looked round.

By the roadside, a little farther down, was an open-front cart-shed, the

sort that has a rickety roof on plank walls and shelters not only carts,

but farm machines of various kinds. Pamela got up and walked a yard or

two down to look. It might of course be "young Reube" hiding, which

would clear her difficulties at once. There was no one in the shed.

She went round the side to the back, called softly,

"Reuben--Reuben--come out, I want to tell you something." She knew he

would come if he were there. No answer, but a hen walked slowly out from

the bushes clucking.

"Oh, you idiot!" said Pamela, annoyed. It must have been the hen. She

walked slowly back to her basket, picked it up, and went off the way she

had come.

*CHAPTER IX*

*The Strange Adventure of the

Curlew's Call*

Pamela went back steadily the way she had come, and reached the

branching of the road with a full appreciation of the work she had set

herself to do--supposing that "curlew" cry should be the desperate

appeal of poor little Reuben.

The fog was thicker, she could but just see the water at the cliff foot;

sometimes not that, because the mist shifted in patches--unequal

patches. She sat down to listen, feeling as though she could hear

better so. Her only guide would be the cry. Of course her return had

caused a perfect bedlam of dismay among the birds, so she had to wait

till they were reassured; then, when all was still except the

everlasting wash of the water on the rocks, she heard the one wail

again.

Listening for it with a new idea in her mind, she wondered that she had

ever been deceived into thinking it was a curlew. She tried to place

it, and the stillness of the atmosphere helped her. A little to the

south of the central point, and down--certainly down.

If Mrs. Romilly could have seen her daughter at that moment she might

have been excused for a nervous collapse. Pamela looked about for a

safe place in which to dispose of the egg basket, finally planting it

between two sturdy tussocks of coarse grass and heather. Then she

pulled her little close hat tighter down, shifting the holding pin;

looked to her shoe ties; and started onward slowly down the preliminary

incline. There was no edge to drop over, instead, a very deceptive

slope, that grew steeper and steeper until it became dangerous.

She fully realized what the child had done, and how he had been led

astray by the apparent easiness of the first part. Probably some idea

of birds' eggs had drawn him on--though it was too late in the

season--or it might have been simply adventure. Pamela thought about it

as she went on, and wondered why he stayed where he was instead of

coming back. It was likely that he had hurt himself.

One of the dangers of this business was starting too fast. In some ways

a cliff edge to get over would be less of a snare, because you went over

with the full knowledge of your risks.

When she looked back, after perhaps five minutes of cautious descent, it

was astonishing to note how a "cliff" had risen up behind her. She

seemed to be a long way down, and the height at her back looked

amazingly steep too. The time was near when she would have to take to

her hands and knees, and crawl--then after a while she would be letting

herself down by rock points, strong grass, and the rugged, uneven

surface of the real cliff--but there were cracks, and little gullies

made by rain and softer soil; these would help.

Every now and then she waited, listening intently, but there was a

longish pause in the crying. It occurred to her that she might get an

answer by calling--and moreover set at rest any lingering doubt. She

called:

"Reuben, Reube, Reube--where are you?" Her voice was clear and pretty,

a sweet voice, the sound of it comforting in a way.

Quickly came an answer on a different note to the despairing wail of the

earlier call.

"Here--Miss----"

The question was very surely decided. Reuben knew who it was by the

politeness of the "miss"--even in extremity. He recognized Pamela's

voice. But the "here", was rather baffling! Where was "here"? She

would have to find out, and anyway she knew it was Reuben, that was all

that mattered much. Pamela started on down once more. Down, and along

at the same time, partly because the call suggested it as the right

direction, partly because it was easier.

She had to cross a most horrible slope of burned grass--very steep, yet

smooth. It gave her some uncommonly ugly moments, but she forced

herself not to look down, and on no account to increase her speed. She

went by inches, digging her toes and fingers in and resolutely thinking

of Reuben and the business in hand--not of possibilities.

"After this comes a nice broken-up bit," she said aloud, to keep herself

sensible, "when I go up again, I'll try farther along. These slippery

bits are no use."

Having reached the nice broken-up bit aforesaid, she cautiously turned

over, and sitting on a big tufty ledge, looked about her.

A little smile flickered round her mouth.

"One in the eye for Addie," she said, "he declared I couldn't get up or

down the Beak; and it's worse in a mist."

The mist was distinctly thick now. So much so that the top of the

headland was out of sight, and the sea was invisible. She was like a

very lonely bird in the middle of an ocean of drifting film. Probably

this was what the eagles felt like--high, high up on a rocky peak in the

clouds. She was not nervous--it was all so very exciting--but it was

important to locate the lost one as soon as possible, because time was

going rather fast.

"Hullo, Reube, call again!" cried Pamela.

There was no answer--there had been no cry, she thought, since the

"miss" in the beginning. She waited a moment and then tried again.

"Reube--I'm close by--I'm come to help you--where are you?"

All the birds started to shriek and scream with delirious riot. They

rose in a cloud, and circled round and round. It was maddening.

"Oh you silly idiots," said Pamela.

As the clatter died down into isolated screams, she heard a voice say:

"I bean't afeard o' birds, Miss."

"That's right, Reube," she spoke in a hearty manner, because the words

came in a detached weak tone, as though the speaker made an effort to

say them.

He must be quite close, she thought.

Down she went again, with infinite care, because the surface of

everything was greasy with mist that thickened continually. Down and

down, and ever the mutter and wash of waves on rock grew more distinct.

Then the voice called, with more life in it.

"Here, Miss! You do be going too far."

Pamela checked and looked round eagerly. _Above_ her, but more to the

Ramsworthy side, in the loneliest and most inaccessible bit of the Beak,

was a dark heap, a very little heap; and, small as it was, the great

part of it consisted of a hump of coarse grass. On the ledge where this

grew clung the human part of the heap.

"_I_ see you," said Pamela, in a cheerful tone.

It was an heroic effort on her part, for, looking at the whole

situation, up, down, and round, it was distinctly terrifying. After

nearly ten minutes cautious climbing, she came within arm's length of

the child.

He was lying on his face, arms grasping a snag of rock at the back of

the grass bunch. He had never looked so small to Pamela, and, in an

instant, she saw by his face what he had suffered; it was pinched and

drawn--stained with tears and dirt.

She laughed. Not because she felt like laughter, but because she had

neither water nor food, and something must be done to rouse the failing

courage--_if_ they were to get up the fog-shielded height that towered

above them.

"I was mortal glad--when I heard you," volunteered Reube, gazing at her

with sunken eyes: "I was pretty near asleep."

"Not at all a nice place for a doze;" said Pam, "now what on earth made

you come here, young man?"

Reube said: "I dunno, Miss." He did not, of course. He had just started

climbing down in a spirit of adventure, and found himself forced to go

on in order to find a way up again. Here was the difficulty. Pamela

saw that it would not be possible to go straight up from here. A cold

thrill of dismay ran through her veins. They _must_ move--they must

start moving at once, there was no time to be lost. And she must find

out the way of least resistance, so to speak; that way only could she

get on with the exhausted child. And she could not see!

The mist dazzled her, wetting every grass blade with a glitter of tiny

shining powder. She would have to move upward, even though difficulties

forced her to go along the cliff face also. That was all that seemed

perfectly clear. Also, and first of all, there was the condition of

Reube.

He remained passive, his white face resting on his arm, his hands

gripping the grass tussock. There seemed no sort of spring in him, and

Pamela looked uneasily at his closed eyes. She realized that he was

injured as well as exhausted, and said:

"What's the matter, Reube--where are you hurt?" in very gentle tones.

Reube opened his eyes and tried to pull his scattered wits together.

"It's me leg, Miss--and I'm that _dry_----" he ceased.

Pamela felt acutely that water was impossible. Then an idea occurred to

her--very inadequate, but still something. She spread her handkerchief

on the grass--saw that it began to get damp at once--and so left it for

a minute, weighted with a little lump of soil, while she looked at the

leg.

The obvious injury was a swollen and bruised knee, very blue, and

growing bluer. But what she feared more was the appearance of the

ankle. The child was wearing rather clumsy laced boots, too large for

him, probably his brother's boots. It was probable that the boot had

twisted, wrenching the ankle. Pamela hoped that it was only a bad

sprain--not a break or a dislocation, but she did not know. The foot

certainly looked queer. She wondered if she ought to take the boot off.

But the laces were knotted in more than one place, and a terror of

interfering seized her.

"If only I knew first aid," she thought miserably.

The moment she got a chance she would learn the whole thing. Therein

lay another immense advantage of being a real Guide. She would have

known exactly what to do. But ignorant handling might make things very

much worse. She moved the foot cautiously, Reube shrank and winced.

She was sure it looked all wrong. Suppose it was broken--what awful

pain!

Pamela returned to examination of her handkerchief. It was quite

wet--really wet. She pressed it between the child's lips, feeling

hopeful.

"Suck it, Reube," she said, "it isn't much, but it might make you feel a

wee bit better."

Then she remembered that soldiers sucked pebbles when they were very

hard put to it from thirst in front-line trenches. She considered the

advisability of giving Reube a wet pebble to suck--if she could find

one--there seemed to be none in the least suitable. After all, suppose

Reube swallowed the pebble in a moment of half consciousness! That would

be worse than anything. She returned to a very settled conviction that

_the_ important thing in life was to know first aid, and belong to the

Girl Guides, when you would be armed with practical knowledge of what to

do in all circumstances.

Reuben seemed the least bit revived. Whether it was the result of her

company or of the handkerchief one could not tell, but the time seemed

to have come to make a real start, if they were ever to get up the

mist-veiled height above them.

From then on--for possibly twenty minutes, when she was completely

played out--poor Pam remembered afterwards as a nightmare of the worst

kind.

She started by climbing up two feet, and then grasping Reube by the arm,

pulled him up to her. She urged him to use his sound foot, and just

drag the other. The slowness of the process was exasperating; the

difficulty grew and grew, because the climb was steeper and more

slippery. She persevered, Reube made heroic efforts--but at the end of

fifteen to twenty minutes, he lay a dead weight.

He had fainted.

Pamela felt pretty desperate. They had come up some distance, but much

of the time had been spent in going a long round, that was bound to be,

because she was forced to pick the best foothold. Not much useful

progress had been made, and what now? She could not revive the child.

He might even be dead!

Pamela spoke aloud to herself.

"Well, dead or alive, I've got to get him up;" her teeth were set in

this determination.

After resting for a few minutes she took sure footing, tested her

position, and then, putting an arm around Reube's waist, heaved up the

small body to a place perhaps a foot higher. This process she repeated

six times. She had gained perhaps eight feet, but she was very tired.

The child remained inert, with closed eyes.

Pamela rested again. This time her lips trembled just a little, and she

blinked her eyes as she stared fixedly along that awful slope. It was

so fearfully steep, and the foothold more and more slippery. If only

someone would come! She had not called, because she knew there was no

one about on the top of the cliff, and it seemed waste of breath and

strength. She understood the curious stolidity of villagers. Supposing

anyone passed along the road at the top he would take no notice of

cries--probably would not hear.

Had there been no fog, Addie might have seen her and climbed up. Surely

the yawl must be somewhere below, cut off from vision by that mass of

elusive shifting whiteness. Then she remembered that there was also a

calm, a dead breathless calm. Perhaps the yacht had not passed

Heggadon, and might have to go back to Salterne when the tide turned.

Everything was against her, and against being found, because all the

attention would be for the yawl and not for herself; it would be taken

for granted she was safe on land. She remembered that the Floweret

would certainly have said: "Where _can_ dear Pamela have gone to!

Surely she is very late." That might have drawn people's attention, but

even the Floweret was lost to her now. There was positively no hope of

help. Reuben's life, and her own too, for that matter, depended on her

own unaided efforts.

She took a long breath, thought of all sorts of things in a queer rush

of resolution to do what hundreds--thousands--of brave men and women had

done in the fighting years. After all this adventure was not unlike

getting a wounded comrade into safety from the lonely perils of No Man's

Land. If a wounded man could do it for another one worse

wounded--surely she, who was sound, could do it for this little

creature.

That was about the reasoning of her mind if it were analysed--but, of

course, it all passed like a flash of realization, she did not reason.

Then she began again, and had gone up in the same way another five feet,

hardly more, when a sick feeling of fright seemed to choke her--she

could not get higher. She had come to a place that was so steep as to

be practically a wall. It was like that for some ten feet, after which

it looked easier--but just here it was sheer. She must try and get

round it, as it were--shift herself and the boy along. To that end it

would be better to explore alone first--find out where her best road lay

and come back for Reube? The question was dare she leave him, would he

move if he returned to consciousness, and roll down into the sea.

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.