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

Ought she to tell her mother? Did it matter? If it did not matter, why

was Sir Marmaduke so secret, and why did the girl herself refuse to go

into Clawtol Farm, and lurk about in this queer way? An ordinary

seaside visitor would come to the shore; why then did she never appear

in the cove or among the rocks?

All these questions chased each other through her mind while she

undressed and brushed out her long hair. Then, just before she lay

down, came the realization of one fact. This strange girl appeared only

very early, or late--never when Bell Bay was busy with ordinary life.

Mollie saw her quite early. Hughie saw her in the evening. Crow and

Adrian saw her after dark, very late indeed. Finally Pamela had seen

her in late afternoon, but then there was such a thick fog that she

could elude anyone.

"Oh, bother it all," thought Pam, "no good worrying any way, one can't

do any more to-night."

Then she was asleep.

*CHAPTER XI*

*In which Adrian holds a decided

opinion about Pam*

No one should count on anything. We say that often, yet we do the

opposite. Pamela thought no one could bother her again that night, yet

she was wakened about two hours after she fell asleep by the cautious

opening of her door.

There was moonlight still, of course. The moon rose later, and was

veiled by fog still, but grey light made things in her room visible.

"Pam!" it was Hughie's voice; he slid round the edge of the door, closed

it after him, and came towards the bed on tiptoes, a quaint little

figure in blue-and-white striped pyjamas.

"Well?" answered Pamela, not in the least realizing that no cause but an

important matter would have made Hughie do this. She was hardly awake.

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

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

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

"Well, look here----"

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

"A person threw a thing into my window. It went whack on the floor--not

a bump--just a teeny whack. Then I got up and found it. See----"

Hughie stretched out his hand.

Pamela gathered her wits together and sat up. Then she bent forward to

look, and took the something from his hand. She turned it over with

caution, surprised, and still befogged.

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

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

Pamela glanced up.

"Get my torch, Midget, and snap it on while I look. We don't want a

candle, it might be seen outside--or inside, for that matter; we don't

need an audience."

Hughie did as he was asked, and stood by her side, bringing the little

bright light to bear on the parcel she held. It was very small. A

longish foreign envelope, containing apparently some little heavy things

of irregular size that felt like pebbles. Pamela tore it open.

Certainly pebbles, little gravel ones not even washed, were in the

envelope, and a folded bit of paper.

Within the note were these words, written in a pointed narrow hand, not

like that usual with schoolgirls.

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

There was no signature.

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

"_Cheek!_"

Hughie watched her with interest. He was not able to master handwriting

yet, but his wits were keen.

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

"Yes."

"Who is she, then?"

"Goodness knows," exclaimed Pamela, "but she's, well--she thinks a most

awful lot of herself. Whether her opinion is justified I suppose her

friends know best. _I_ know nothing at all, yet."

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

"My dear Midget, she doesn't ask. She coolly _orders_ me to meet her at

8.30 to-morrow--she writes 'to-morrow' and never says whether it's

morning or evening--to begin with, that's idiotic! And why does she

throw it into your window, I'd like to know? She must be raving mad,

prowling about our house at--what time is it--eleven o'clock. It simply

isn't decent."

Pamela was both annoyed and startled, at the same time she was

intrigued, and a tiny bit flattered. This surprising stranger, who bore

a very distinguished stamp on her personality, had picked out

her--Pamela--as an acquaintance, not Christobel! Well, it was odd; she

read the note again, and looked at the dusty little pebbles in the

envelope.

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

"She meant it for yours," suggested Hughie.

"Hum--how did she know these two rooms were yours and mine?" Then a

light broke on Pamela's mind. "I know, Midget--she's been pumping Mrs.

Trewby and Baker--I mean Mrs. Chipman, and they've told her things. Both

of them know how we live and what we do with ourselves. She wasn't sure

quite which window, so she chucked it into the first one, which happens

to be yours. I say though, it's awful cheek! Fancy if anybody saw her."

"Fancy if Addie and Crow were on the yawl and saw her in the garden--I

say," Hughie chuckled, "they'd say it was you, Pam--they'd be certain

this time."

Pamela lay back on her pillow and frowned.

"I wish she'd leave me alone, Midget. I've a feeling in my bones that

she'll get me into a mess before she's done. I don't believe she has a

shred of consideration, now she knows we are alike."

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

"Seen me! Why, I perfectly forgot I've never told you a thing. Here,

climb on the foot of the bed, and I'll tell you exactly what happened

to-day. I was so fearfully tired, and so busy warding off all the

idiotic questions, that I never remembered I hadn't told you."

Hughie climbed up as suggested, packing himself like an Indian idol as

usual, and listened to the true and complete version of the rescue on

the Beak cliff.

When it was ended he said:

"Well, I thought it was fearfully funny that you got up Reube all alone.

I've been down there----"

"You have," interrupted Pamela with sharp disapproval, "then you're not

to do it again, Midget. Swear you won't."

Silence.

"Well--look here," Pamela compromised, "if you won't promise, will you

tell me when you go and let me come too. Honestly, it isn't safe for

you. Reube slipped and was nearly killed. Only my going saved him."

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

"That's all right--on your honour, Midget, you've promised. Well, to go

back to this woman, genuinely I shouldn't have got up alone with that

child. It was so slippery--one simply could not get a foothold to

grip."

"Major Fraser was thinking about it while he talked to us," remarked

Hughie dryly, "_he_ was wondering, I saw him."

"Well, he'll have to wonder," answered Pamela shortly, "I'm getting fed

up with this girl. By the way, Midget, her face isn't like mine. She's

frightfully pretty."

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

Pamela turned pink.

"Oh no--not pretty. I may be interesting--I hope I am. And I know my

hair's decent. But really and honestly this girl is lovely--and

yet--she didn't exactly draw one. Some people make you love them on the

spot."

"Like Miss Lasarge," said Hughie.

"Yes, she's simply adorable--and that reminds me of an idea that came on

me at supper. I can't go into it now--but remember to remind me, would

you, I might forget with all this rush of confusion. Oh dear! How

tiresome people are sometimes--what was I saying?"

"You said the girl was pretty, and she didn't draw you," reminded Hughie

with painstaking care, "was she nice, Pam?"

"I couldn't say. She's clever. It was she thought of the petticoat.

She climbs like a cat; she isn't a bit nervous--somehow she has a look

of being used to it. There's something about her that impresses

one--her nose is a bit hooky." Pamela paused and considered the matter,

Hughie watched her intently; then she began again:

"She's only told me one thing, Midget, and that came up by accident.

Somehow brothers and fathers happened to be mentioned, and she said

_her_ father was killed in the war. Just that. She looked so queer

when she said it, kind of fierce. She's got funny eyes--dark eyes, but

not black--or hazel, there's a sort of tinge of red in them, and when

she told me that, the red shone."

There was another pause, then Hughie remarked:

"We _did_ see you, Pam."

"Who did?"

"Why don't you remember Miss Chance said that we saw you in the mist

against the sky, and thought it was two Pams carrying something."

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

"I didn't say a word. She just thought she was mistaken afterwards.

But I did rather wonder about it--especially when I felt pretty sure you

couldn't have got up the Beak."

Pamela laughed.

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

I'm sleepy."

Hughie slid off the bed.

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

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

means?"

"She can't mean breakfast-time," suggested her brother with reason.

"They'd tell her we have it at half past eight, and usually wait about

till nine in holidays. Besides, it's a bad time for hiding oneself

considering everybody in Bell Bay is going back to work."

"So it is. Well, I must say going to meet people at 8.30 in the evening

is rather a vulgar sort of action," Pamela lay down as she gave this

distinctly sensible opinion. "I don't care about going. I don't think

I will, Midget."

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

entered.

The crew of the yawl was good as its word, and turned up at

breakfast-time--half past eight. Indeed they were in the cove much

earlier, and riding on the moorings like a white swan on a pond. It was

calm and fresh as fairyland. Mist seemed to have lasted most of the

night, but cleared with sunrise, leaving a wonderful feeling of

cleanness.

Christobel and Adrian were in high spirits, they had done what they most

wished; anchored out all night, and slept on board--on their own

responsibility, and they felt entirely satisfied with the experience,

also, anxious to do it again. The more they did, the more they might be

allowed to do without bother or question, for when Mrs. Romilly

understood that they were as safe as in Penberthy's day, she would cease

to trouble about them.

Addie shouted up to her window, and imparted news in cheerful tones.

Crow went in to have a bath and do her hair before the bell rang.

There was a general stir of excitement.

In the middle of breakfast Adrian said:

"Pam was up as early as we were. I congratulate you, my dear

girl--never saw anything so athletic in my life! Talk about our risks!

They were jolly small compared to your plan of speeding about all over

the Beak at sunrise--jolly slippy hour too."

Pamela sat up with a sort of a start, and sat staring at the speaker

while a flush of colour crept over her face, saying nothing at first.

"No good you saying you were in bed--this time," continued Adrian with a

good-natured emphasis on the last two words, "we saw you, as plain as we

saw the old Beak--ripping it looked, too--didn't we, Crow?"

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

"Well, who else could it be _but_ Pam," interrupted Adrian, "need we

haggle over a thing like that? If we were in London, or even Peterock,

one might see a few samples of girls, but not in Bell Bay."

Everyone was looking at Pamela, and for one wild moment she contemplated

saying she was the person seen, just to stop the conversation. Then she

remembered that nothing is so silly--apart from wrong--as a fib, even a

harmless fib, because you are bound to tangle yourself up in a network

of bother, and afterwards, when you do tell the truth, people will not

believe.

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

nearly eight."

There was silence of a tense kind. Adrian raised his eyebrows and

looked at Christobel. Christobel winced, gazed at her plate and turned

pink. Mrs. Romilly glanced from one face to the other, puzzled.

Hughie came to the rescue.

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

I heard."

Poor Pamela cast a grateful look towards her faithful ally.

Then the Floweret--faintly conscious of uneasiness, but believing in

everybody's good faith, as usual--burst into the conversation.

"I call that quite an odd coincidence--don't you, dear Mrs. Romilly? To

think that Pamela should have risked her life to save that of another,

on the Beak last evening, while we were all in ignorance. And that this

morning when she was not there, Adrian should fancy she was! Most

strange, is it not?"

Nobody entered into argument as to the strangeness of the Floweret's

"coincidence", but Crow demanded eagerly what was the story about Pam.

She was told--by everybody except Pamela, who sat listening. Christobel

was intensely interested; Adrian asked many questions. Finally, it was

decided that someone must go up to Clawtol and inquire about Reuben;

then the party dispersed, the decision having been reached that Crow and

Adrian would go up that morning, carrying certain delicacies for Reube;

and Mrs. Romilly would go herself to see Mrs. Ensor later in the

afternoon, probably after tea.

Nothing particular happened to the elder pair as they walked up, taking

the shorter and easier way through Crown Hill park, except that Adrian

gave it as his assured conviction--first, that Pamela had been on the

Beak that morning; secondly, that she had not rescued Reube Ensor.

"Addie, how _can_ you!" said Crow, almost tearful, "besides, it's silly.

Hughie heard her get up; and how could she be telling a story about the

Beak? Reube was brought up by someone--there he is, badly hurt. I

think you carry things too far sometimes."

"My dear friend," pronounced Adrian weightily, "I assure you on my

honour that it would take every inch of muscle _I've_ got to haul that

child up the Beak."

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

"She may be, but she can't do impossible things. That cliff is fairly

precipitous, and the mist makes the whole show as greasy as butter. I

tell you, Crow----"

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

"The place we saw her on this morning is the worst bit--well, as bad as

any. It's all bad. What did she tell that lie for, Crow, I ask you?

_I_ saw her. You saw her. Rum thing is she must have seen us. She was

there the whole time we took getting from opposite the lighthouse to the

north of the Beak. Just crawling up and down, and moving along. Why,

the thing was patent. It was blazing. I swear I don't understand what

Pamela is up to."

Christobel was on the point of suggesting a lame excuse; because she

certainly had seen Pamela, when they became aware of a lady wandering

over the grass in the wake of a King Charles spaniel whose nose was

buttoned up so high that it seemed miraculous he could live upside down,

as it were. He was attached to a long lead, and as he ran round tree

trunks the lady became a fixture at unexpected moments, because she

never let go whatever happened. She did not see the Romillys because

she was as short-sighted as the spaniel.

Christobel hurried towards her, with a cry of "Good morning, Auntie A.,"

unwound the dog and the lady, and started them again on a clear space.

"My dear children," said Auntie A., beaming, "how nice to see you both,

and looking so well too, but surely it is not summer holidays yet--what?

Ah, I should have remembered. I saw you last week I believe, dear

Adrian, before Mollie went. I miss her so much, especially in the

matter of Charles and his exercise--I do assure you he sets me at

defiance. Indeed he does. The spirit of the age, is it not? So sad!

Excuse me, dear Christobel, but is my veil on my hat, I believe Dickens

put it there when I came out, I feel certain she must have done so, yet

I cannot find it."

"It is under your chin, Auntie A.," said Crow gently and unsmiling, "I

expect it got crooked and you pulled it down. Shall I undo it, and

start again?"

"If you would, dear, I should be most grateful," said Miss Ashington,

beaming, and she stood still while Christobel undid the veil, took it

off, and put it on again neatly over the brim of her wide hat. She

stood still, but she talked earnestly all the time about land girls and

farming, which was her special hobby at the moment.

Adrian teased the King Charles. He hated it, and its way of making

snuffling noises and barks like coughs. Auntie A. never noticed that the

dog was being teased, but she heard the coughing barks, and said she

must go home and give poor Charles some tea made from stewed herbs. She

had invented the cure herself. She and Charles drank it--at least it

was forced down the spaniel's throat when he became extra snuffly.

"I really think he ought to have something, Miss Ashington," said Adrian

gravely, "he sounds as though he'd got congestion of the lungs, or

bronchitis, doesn't he, Crow?"

Christobel said: "Oh no, I don't think it's as bad as that,"

reproachfully, but Miss Ashington turned homeward; she was pulling the

edge of her veil--already it was coming slowly down.

"Of course you want to know about poor little what's-his-name," she

said, drifting on from the farm questions. "I sent to inquire, because

the milk boy told Mrs. Homer about the affair. Dear Pamela seems to

have rescued the child in a most heroic manner. So difficult to climb

up cliff's with a boy on your back----"

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

"Mrs. Ensor--or somebody--Oh yes, little Joe said she was carrying the

child on her back, and he was unconscious. Really, you know, my dear

children, I think steps should be taken to obtain the Humane Society's

medal for dear Pamela."

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

"Well, dear, the child _would_ have been drowned had he fallen from the

Beak. It is practically the same thing. I will write to my brother and

put the matter before him--something really must be done. I feel that

we ought not to lose sight of your sister's courageous act. Sir

Marmaduke would, I am certain, be the first to insist----"

She was stopped suddenly by finding herself entangled in the lead.

Charles had gone twice round a tree stem.

"Really," murmured Auntie A., "really, this is _most_----" the rest of

the protest was lost in the folds of the veil which was coming off the

brim of her hat again.

Adrian picked up Charles and, walking backwards twice round the tree

trunk, set the confusion clear.

Miss Ashington did not laugh--she had not the faintest sense of humour,

but a very large heart. She beamed with gratitude from a space between

the veil and the hat.

"Thank you, dear Adrian, how good of you. We must go home. I feel

convinced poor Charles is not himself."

Charles was not himself, if his normal condition was good temper. He

was enraged with his persecutor and the worst of it was that he found it

impossible to explain, except in snuffles, which did not count.

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

"I should give him laurel water, Miss Ashington," said Adrian in a

serious tone, "it has the most lasting effect on dogs of that breed."

"Laurel water! Really, I must remember that. Thank you, dear

Adrian--come, Charles, come----"

She went--with the veil round her shoulders, and Charles coughing

defiance at the enemy. Charles had heard the parting advice and knew

perfectly well that "laurel water" was only a polite name for prussic

acid.

"How could you, Addie?" Christobel expostulated.

"Oh, it does them good--they both enjoy it," said her brother, "you

heard what she said about Pamela."

Christobel nodded. She was pleased. There was no doubt in the world

that Pam had behaved like a heroine, yet Addie was trying to make her

out something of a criminal! The matter was still more decided when the

two reached Clawtol. They were overwhelmed with gratitude and honour by

little Mrs. Ensor in the first place, and Ensor himself in the second.

These two had removed their son from Pamela's shoulders, and referred

several times to his disconnected recollections of that awful time on

the cliff front.

"They 'adn't a drop of water, sir," said Mrs. Ensor to Adrian, her eyes

full of tears, "if I'd a known, my cup o' tea would 'ave choked me. And

boy says--Miss Pam takes 'er handkercher, and lays it on the grass--to

get misty like, then she puts it in 'is mouth. 'Suck that, Reube,' says

she 'an I wish I could do better for you.' Wonderful I call it.

_Wonderful_. And she nobbut a child 'erself when it comes to years.

He's asleep now, missie, or you could see him."

Ensor came to the gate with his visitors. There was quite a ceremonial

of respect in his manner. Christobel gave the message that Mrs. Romilly

would call in the evening, and the two went off home by the cliff road.

Adrian said nothing much till they reached the much-discussed summit.

Then he went out over the ground, slowly descending, looking about as he

went.

"Don't, Addie," protested Crow, following, "it's simply beastly. Just

look!" She stood still.

After some minutes her brother came back.

"No time now," he said, "but I shall have a try later. In any case

though, I shall stick to my opinion. I bet you everything I possess,

old girl, that Pamela couldn't have done that job alone."

*CHAPTER XII*

*In which Pam defies the Countess*

Pamela was growing angry. This seldom happened with her, because though

she had a temper "of her own", as Mrs. Jeep declared, it was well under

control. She had a great contempt for people who are angry in a

"senseless" way, that is to say, without adequate reason. In the

present situation she considered she had reason, and therefore

indignation was brewing up into serious anger.

"Why can't people leave other people's affairs alone," said Pamela to

herself. What business had this handsome strange girl to mix up in

Romilly affairs? She melted occasionally when she remembered the affair

of the cliff. It was well never to forget that the cool courage of this

inconvenient "double" had saved her from tortures indescribable, and

probably death. One must never forget gratitude, and a debt of honour

like that; at the same time poor Pamela was grievously hurt at Adrian's

suspicions and scepticism.

The worst of it was, they were true.

Addie knew, of course, she could not have done the work alone. Yet she

dare not speak. She had heard what the stranger said to Reube--Sir

Marmaduke Shard was at the back of this mystery, he was a great K.C. and

a person of untold wisdom; if she talked she might set on foot a whole

host of mischief; she might offend the Shards and endanger the present

joys of the yawl. She might destroy the friendship between the Bell

House and Crown Hill.

Pamela's imagination saw herself a perfect outcast, scorned by both

families, because she had not been able to hold her tongue for a brief

period.

The conditions were quite distinct to her eyes. Sir Marmaduke, having

brought down the girl in secrecy--telling no one, not even Mrs. Romilly

or his own daughter--must intend it to remain a secret, for the present

anyway. And to prove it came the girl's warning to Reube.

It was plain that she went out early or late. She had been on the Beak

again that morning at seven o'clock. Now was that by permission?

Pamela believed it was not. She believed that her double gave the

keepers at Woodrising a most anxious time.

"She would," muttered Pam, with her head against the window frame, "she

would--she hasn't got that nose for nothing. She may trample on that

wretched Chipman, and give Mrs. Trewby jaundice, but she shan't trample

on me. I can't help looking like her, but there it ends--no human power

shall turn me into a door-mat--to be ordered about by that nose."

These metaphors were confused certainly, but the intention was very

distinct. Pamela had made up her mind about that message thrown into

Hughie's window. She was going to proceed on direct lines--and at once.

There, in the window-seat of her room, she had reasoned it out and come

to the conclusion that she must take decided action.

Nothing should make her meet the girl in secret. She would go to

Woodrising after tea, ask to see her, and tell her so, once for all.

Hughie asked no questions that day, he was a tactful child. Miss Chance

had a headache, and the two elders were going out in the dinghy to fish

for whiting, taking their tea. Pamela felt a pang when Crow said:

"Won't you ever come in the boat, Pam?" It looked as though she had

private concealments, and the horrible part was that she had--only they

were honourable and with excellent intentions.

She excused herself with such anxious humility that Christobel's

sympathy was with her entirely. Adrian said nothing.

Mrs. Romilly started for Clawtol escorted by Hughie. Then Pamela Romilly

made preparations to put her foot down with credit to her family.

She brushed her long hair, changed her blouse, and put on a different

hat, a shady one. She got out clean washed gauntlet gloves, and

polished her brown shoes. Then she went up to Woodrising.

She met no one by the way, and all the time was conscious of surprise at

her own boldness--for no one can deny it was bold.

Arrived outside the carriage-gate in the wall she found it was locked.

There was a pair of big gates with little spikes along the top, and in

one of these was a small gate.

"Anyone would think it was a lunatic asylum," thought the girl, and from

that sprang a sudden amazing question: "Was it? Was this strange girl a

'funny person'? She did not look 'cracked'," as Pam breathlessly put

it, but one never knows!

The only thing to do was to summon Mrs. Trewby by the gate bell. So she

rang it. As she stood waiting, she recalled that Mrs. Trewby had told

Mrs. Jeep she always kept the gate locked, because of tramps and

trippers.

"Anybody wouldn't believe how folk make free with a person's property,"

Mrs. Trewby had said. "Here, there, and everywhere--and to sweep up

after them is not what I'm paid to do." So the gate was kept locked

because of excursionists, not lunatics.

Mrs. Trewby came with slow steps, and Pamela heard her sigh as she undid

the chain. The small gate opened, and the two looked at each other

through the opening.

"Good afternoon," said Pamela politely, "could I see the young lady who

is staying here?"

Mrs. Trewby looked as though someone had fired a squib in her ear. Her

sallow face and melancholy eyes became distracted and rather frightened.

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

close it.

"Yes. We needn't pretend, need we, Mrs. Trewby. I've seen her, and she

sent me a note last evening asking me to meet her. I must speak to

her."

"Sent you a note, miss!" Mrs. Trewby repeated these words in a startled

manner. "Who ever brought it? If it was boy----"

In this way Mrs. Trewby let the cat quite out of the bag, and made it

impossible to deny the presence of the young lady at Woodrising.

"She brought it herself," said Pamela, "if you want to know how she gave

it in, you'd better ask her, I'm not here to tell things; I'm here to

speak to her, it's important."

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

almost afraid of Pamela.

"Well, miss," she conceded, "if you'll step inside, I'll tell Mrs.

Chipman. She will be in a way, but I can ask her. It's no business of

mine--what I say is 'attend to your own business, it'll take all your

time'--nobody can say I've put myself forward to interfere; it's not my

nature; I never was one for forwardness, that I will say."

These comments on her own character were made by Mrs. Trewby as she shut

the gate, locked it, and led the way across the gravel sweep to the

square white porch in the square white house-front. Here again was a

double-locked door she opened, and Mrs. Trewby led Pamela into the dim

hall; then, with a murmured assertion that it was not her fault, she

melted into some back passage.

In the briefest time, and before Pamela had time to do more than take in

the fact that the hall ran through the house to a glass door at the end,

and that there seemed to be several rooms, Mrs. Chipman burst upon her

sight.

She was a little woman, stout, and extremely bustling and buxom. She

wore the style of garment that used to be called a habit bodice--tight

and firm, and bristling with bead trimming and buttons. Her neck was

short, but she had a beaded collar fastened by a brooch. Nothing on

earth could have been more respectable and farther from any idea of

mystery than Mrs. Chipman.

"Good evening, Miss Pamela," she said in a quick bustling voice,

suppressed to a low note, "I find Mrs. Trewby's communication difficult

of comprehension. Do I understand that you have a message for--me?"

"I wish to see the young lady who is staying here, Mrs. Chipman, and to

make things clear I may as well say that I've spoken to her. And she

sent me a note--I've really come about the note."

"Excuse me, Miss Pamela, might I request----" Mrs. Chipman motioned

towards a door with a flourish of her fat hand, and then led the way to

it, flung it open and let Pamela pass in, then she shut the door and

practically stood with her back to it, thus barring the way out.

Pamela glanced round expecting to find the person she wanted, but there

was no one in the room but themselves. It was apparently a dining-room,

comfortably furnished in a very solid manner, and having a window at the

end looking over the lawns.

Mrs. Chipman swept on without taking breath.

"I realized some such demand from words conveyed by Mrs. Trewby, but the

mental capacity of persons dwelling in the country--as a

permanency--being to a great extent limited, I believed she had mistaken

your words. I am loath indeed to deny any member of the family what

would appear a most reasonable request, but I assure you, Miss Pamela, I

stand in a position of trust--nay, more--a position of great

responsibility, and therefore I grieve to say that I could not

accede--that is to say if there is a young lady at all. To begin with I

cannot admit that there is a young lady----"

"Then you must be sillier than people think, Mrs. Chipman," said Pamela

blandly, "we've all seen her--only the others take her for me----"

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

"Well, I don't like it then," Pamela cut her short with raised tone. "I

don't like it, and I won't bear the burden of the things she does. So

far _I_ am the only person who has spoken to her--in our family--but

unless you let me see her now, and speak to her, and settle things up, I

will tell them all--every one."

Mrs. Chipman tried to speak. Pamela continued firmly,

"I don't want to be the least rude, but if you are responsible and all

the rest of it, why don't you look after her? Do you know she threw a

note into my brother's window last night about eleven, or half-past

ten?"

Mrs. Chipman gave a squeak like a trapped mouse, then she pressed a hand

to her tight bodice.

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

"It was Hughie's window, the next to mine," went on Pamela, "_he_

brought it in to me, because it was addressed to me. How she knew our

rooms I can't say--but that doesn't matter--the point is, what was she

doing in our grounds at that time?"

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

on:

"What would Sir Marmaduke say, Mrs. Chipman? If you won't let me see

her, I shall certainly ask _him_ if I may--and explain matters."

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

wind. She hesitated.

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

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

At that moment a bell pealed somewhere in the house. Really pealed, with

the jangling force of a violently pulled bell.

"If you will excuse me, miss," said Mrs. Chipman, visibly perturbed.

She opened the door, and hurried out into the hall, Pamela following

closely with interest very wide awake.

Again the bell was rung, more forcefully than ever.

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

Pamela giggled.

But the bell-puller was unreasonably impatient. A door on the right

hand of the hall--same side as the room they had quitted, but the last

door--opened sharply, and the girl under discussion appeared. She wore

no hat, and held a book in her hand.

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

Pamela came forward. Drawn up to her full height, her carriage and

manner were at least as haughty as those of the other girl.

"_I_ was talking to Mrs. Chipman," she said. "As a matter of fact I

came to see you, and she was doubtful about it; so I told her I

insisted."

"Excuse me, Countess," burst in Mrs. Chipman, "but I must protest now,

and once for all against irregular conduct. I stand in the position of

guardian. The grounds are open to you, and you have the option of

gravitation to any portion of the wood, orchards, or gardens--there is

no excuse----"

"You talk too much," said the girl irritably, "be silent. You are not a

guardian, you are my maid--Sir Marmaduke is my guardian, for the time.

Come into this room, Miss Romilly, I will receive you here."

She turned round and went back into the drawing-room, leaving Mrs.

Chipman blown out like an angry bird with feathers on end.

Pamela followed--thinking hard, "receive me! Cheek!" and the other

revelation--"So Countess wasn't a dog! I wonder what sort of Countess!"

In the drawing-room with the door closed, the two girls faced each other

standing. And Pamela was again struck by the beauty and imperious style

of this odd "double". Also, she had to admit how wonderfully alike they

were in general effect.

Pamela began the conversation.

"I've come about your--note," she said with a little gesture of her hand

towards her skirt pocket, "I suppose you don't realize that you mistook

the room and threw it into my brother's window?"

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

"Yes."

"Did he read it?"

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

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

"Naturally not," Pamela stiffened, "you don't seem to understand. No

decent people open other people's letters."

Countess shrugged her shoulders.

"Just so. That is well then. But if you received my note why did you

not come to the wood?"

"Come! When?"

"The hour that I appointed. 8.30."

Pamela raised her eyebrows.

"So you expected me to go to Clawtol at half-past eight this morning,

because you wished it! Doesn't it occur to you that you

are--well--rather presumptuous? Why--on--earth--should I?"

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

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

"Wretched creature," thought Pamela suddenly, with the broad instinct of

fair play natural to girls of her upbringing, "she's always had her own

way. She thinks herself a little tin god! She doesn't understand!"

"Can I sit down?" she said aloud, and without waiting for an answer took

her seat on a big sofa, near the window.

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

of the same sofa.

"Well, look here," went on Pamela, "let's understand each other, if you

don't mind, then there won't be any bother."

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

Pamela controlled her temper with effort. The assumption of superiority

was so aggravating.

"There will be a good deal of bother, if you do unreasonable things,"

she went on, trying to be indifferent. "If you want to send notes would

you kindly leave them at the front door, because----"

"Impossible," interrupted the Countess decidedly, "you see I am not

supposed to go outside these grounds. If I were to walk to your house

openly I should betray myself. I do not stay in the grounds of course,

because I wish to go outside. But I employ my own means."

Pamela looked at her with a frustrated feeling. If only the girl were

not so horribly "cock-sure"!

"Well, look here," she began at another point, "will you tell me your

name? I find it a bit difficult to talk without knowing it."

A sort of glint flashed in the stranger's eyes. And Pamela's natural

perceptions caused her to read the thought behind that glint on the

instant.

The girl imagined she was fishing for information!

"You can call me 'Countess', if you wish to give me a name," she

answered, "I have eight names, but I do not tell them to people in this

place. You heard my maid say 'Countess'. Very well, then, you can also

say Countess."

"Oh, thanks--that's very obliging of you," said Pamela, quite

unimpressed, "it's as you please, of course. And after that, to get to

the reason of my visit. I naturally supposed that you meant me to meet

you at 8.30 to-night."

"Oh--to-night will do," allowed the Countess quite amiably, "I wished

this morning, because I was in a hurry, but to-night will do as you have

misunderstood my meaning."

"_Neither_ would do, simply because I've no intention of meeting you

anywhere, or at any time. It is just as well you should understand."

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

enjoying herself.

"As I said to you a few minutes ago, why on earth should I? _I_ don't

want to be bothered with meeting anybody on the sly--we don't do it in

our family. The others would soon notice and think I was doing a

low-down thing. I don't know you--I don't know your name. You are no

business of mine. I don't care what you've got to say if it is

secret--if it isn't, well, be open. That's the whole position, please

understand I came here because I wish to be open, and to tell you

honestly."

The Countess sat still with her eyes gazing at the carpet, her glance

had dropped from Pamela's expressive face and large clear eyes.

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

one--no one."

She clasped her hands together rigidly on her lap, and Pam saw that they

shook. The corners of her proud mouth twitched a little. But she held

herself severely in check, and controlled evident emotion.

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

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

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

that.

Countess raised her eyes to meet Pam's. There was a something the least

bit softer over their hard brightness.

"I am troubled," she said, "and wished to ask advice from you. When we

carried that boy up the cliff yesterday I dropped my brooch--it was a

safety pin of rather large size, of gold, and with my first letter and

the crown in diamonds. My mother gave it to me on my birthday when I

was twelve years old--I would not lose it for the world.--It was in my

blouse--here, you see," she touched the opening of her silk shirt. "I

don't know what I should do, I cannot find it--but I cannot offer a

reward--what shall I do?"

"You were on the cliff this morning looking for it, weren't you?" asked

Pamela, full of sympathy, and realizing the reason for Adrian's attack

on herself.

Countess nodded.

"Oh, for a long while, everywhere."

"My brother saw you. They were coming back from Salterne in the yawl,

and passed under the Beak about seven o'clock. They thought it was _I_,

you see," Pamela made a little grimace of disgust, "and said what was I

doing there? I said I wasn't there."

"Did they believe you?" asked Countess, with a sudden interest that made

her seem more girlish.

"Crow did."

"'Crow'!"

"I beg your pardon, I mean Christobel, my elder sister. She is Mollie

Shard's friend, and she's going to be presented fairly soon--she's done

with school--but we are awfully good chums. _She_ believed me, of

course. She'd sooner mistrust her own eyes than my word, because we

both know we wouldn't tell each other crammers."

"Is that lies?"

"Yes. She knows I wouldn't. _You_ wouldn't tell your sister lies when

you knew she trusted you, would you?"

Countess shrugged her shoulders with a faint air of amusement.

"I have no sister, so--well! But I should tell any person what I like,

and whatever suited me to say. No one is bound to incriminate

themselves. It is not 'lies', as you call it--that is business, and

common-sense."

"Can't agree with you at all," said Pamela icily. "'Business and

common-sense to tell lies when it paid'. Nice sort of ideas!"

She sat silent for a moment, then she asked:

"Are you at school?"

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

"Oh, then you are not _English_?" Pamela felt a sense of relief, though

she always tried hard not to be narrow.

"No," said the Countess, adding, after a moment's pause, "I was to go to

school next term after the summer holidays."

"Shall you now?"

"I don't know. I dare say not. I went for a while, it was horrible. I

left soon; I don't know about anything."

"No wonder she left soon," thought Pamela, "her talk is simply full of

'I's', never heard anyone say so many." Again there was silence,

because it was not easy to keep up conversation; the situation was so

cramped and artificial to a girl of "open-air" temperament. Pamela

began wondering if it would not be better to go now; she had said her

say, and wanted to end it all.

"Well, I'm awfully sorry about your brooch," she pulled up her gloves,

and made a move to stand up. "If I hear that anyone has found it, what

shall I do? I can't claim it. Shall I give it to the Police--or what

about Miss Ashington?"

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

know things."

Pamela settled down rather uneasily, for the Countess had laid a

restraining hand on her arm.

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

question simply.

"Yes, of course, but I forgot. Chipman told me that, I remember now.

No, how could I tell her, it would betray me, since the brooch is lost

on the cliff, or the road. I cannot tell what I shall do--besides this

Miss Ashington knows nothing of me--no one knows."

Again she conveyed an impression to Pamela that she was not telling the

truth. Whether it was a true impression or not, it stiffened Pamela's

resolution.

"I'm afraid I can't think of anything, then," she said, "if you don't

know anyone _really_, and you won't let Mrs. Chipman offer a reward. If

I find it, I'll leave it at the door with Mrs. Trewby. And now I must

go, really and honestly."

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

"How can I? You say yourself that Sir Marmaduke has put you here, and

wishes no one to know. There must be some good reason for him to

arrange that--he's an awfully kind, nice man, we all love him," said

Pamela warmly. "I won't do sly things against his wish. Why, he's

letting us use his lovely yacht now."

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

Pamela assented.

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

"He is allowing us to use her all the summer till he comes in

September--it's awfully kind."

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

"No one, we manage her ourselves. There used to be a man, but they want

him in the gardens at Crown Hill, so we go quite alone."

"Go where?"

"Oh, anywhere along the coast here. This morning Adrian and Christobel

were coming from Salterne. They got caught in that thunderstorm the

other day, and ran in there up to the harbour, left the yacht, and came

back by train. Yesterday they went by train to fetch her, and came back

early this morning."

Pamela was feeling a little more friendly as she talked about the

_Messenger_. Memories rushed into her mind of the evening of the

thunderstorm day and how the others had mistaken the Countess for her.

"That reminds me," she said, "on the evening of the thunderstorm day did

you go out--to Folly Ho, on the Peterock Road, and come home late, quite

late--half-past nine. Oh, nearly ten?"

The other girl considered. Not as though she did not remember, but as

though she was not sure whether she would tell or no.

Pamela got up from her seat and walked a few steps; they walked together

to the middle of the room, and paused there to say good-bye.

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

cautiously.

"Well, Addie and Crow--the others I mean--saw you. They were coming from

the station. Didn't he whistle?"

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

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

were cross with me."

At this moment Pamela noticed that the other girl's attention was fixed

upon a long mirror on the wall opposite She also looked, and saw the two

full-length figures, each with its long tail of beautiful bright hair.

The same height! The same figure! The same dress!

"Oh!" ejaculated Pam in startled dismay.

The Countess laughed, for the first time.

Afterwards, as Pamela hurried home with rather a perturbed mind,

thinking puzzled thoughts, the picture of that pair of girls was

distinct, and tiresome. She did not like it.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*Double "A" and a Diamond Crown*

In a day or two Pamela had recovered from those pricking fears. After

all, there was nothing to worry about. The Countess would not worry her

any more, because she had been firm. "The great thing is," thought Pam,

"to be firm. To let people really see that you mean what you say, then

they won't 'try it on'." She felt that the Countess had been inclined

to "try it on". There was no doubt about that. Now it was ended, and

no one a penny the worse. Who she was, or what she did at Woodrising

must remain a mystery, for the present anyway. It was tantalizing, but,

as the girl had offered no explanation herself, Pamela felt it would be

impossible to pry or ask servants, even if they would answer. She was

sorry about the brooch, sorry for the loneliness of this strange young

person; all the same, she felt instinctively that the Countess could

very well take care of herself.

The sun shone, the wind blew, not too hard. Pamela, with something of

thankfulness, threw herself into the boating plans, and went out fishing

for whiting, which the family ate joyfully.

Three or four days of peace went by, and then a positive bomb of

annoyance fell into her pleasure, scattering destruction on all sides.

Adrian put off things often. He forgot, or seemed to for the moment,

but never for good. There was a strong underlying tenacity in his

nature; he always did--ultimately--what he said he would do. Therefore,

after apparently forgetting what he had said about inspecting the Beak

cliff, he went off one day before breakfast--after an early bathe--and

went down over the ground that had been so much discussed.

The result was startling.

When Pamela came down to breakfast that morning she found everybody

absorbed in the examination of some small thing Mrs. Romilly was

holding. She, sitting in her place behind the urn, was turning this

article in her hands, and Adrian, who had given it to her, was leaning

over the back of her chair, Crow stooping over the tea-cups, Hughie

enjoying a good view under people's arms, and Miss Chance pretending to

see for fear of giving trouble.

Christobel looked up as Pamela entered.

"Oh, Pam--Addie has been on the Beak, and he has found the most adorable

brooch--I wish to goodness Mum would feel we might keep it!"

"Why not? findings--keepings," said Adrian. "I present it to Mother.

It's a ripper."

"Thank you, darling--but it wouldn't be possible to keep it." Mrs.

Romilly held up the small object for Pamela to see.

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

was correct.

A gold safety pin about an inch and a half long, attached to it, the

loveliest decoration, a double "A", that is two capital A's entwined,

and above them a tiny coronet, the whole made in diamonds. It was

stained with earth and damp when brought in, and Mrs. Romilly, putting

it into a cup, washed it with hot water and rubbed it on her soft

handkerchief. It was lovely, and obviously very valuable.

Pamela gazed at it speechless, turning it over in her hands, trying to

think--but feeling too startled.

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

her.

"On the Beak?" questioned Pamela uncertainly.

"Yes. Just the place where you hauled up little Ensor. I 'reconstructed

the crime', as the French Police do; result of reconstruction, can't

think how you managed to do it! I couldn't. Found it took all the

running I could do to keep in the same place, so to speak. Stiffish

climb with no encumbrances. Just in a tuft of grass I found this thing

stuck; it looked as though someone had dropped it and then trodden on

it, squeezing it down fairly firm, but not burying it."

"How funny!" commented Pamela weakly. She felt it was weak, and that

made her turn pink. Then, knowing she had turned pink, nervousness

seized her and she became very white.

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

eyes.

"I want Mum to keep it," said Adrian, "why shouldn't she? It's a

mystery how it got there. It may have been stuck in that tuft for

years. The person who owned it may be dead."

"Oh no, we must hand it over to the Police," said Mrs. Romilly. There

was a general cry of "oh Mother!" as she took the brooch back again into

her hand, and examined h even more critically. In that moment a thought

struck her, and she looked up at her eager family.

"Crow dear--why shouldn't it be Auntie A's? Why, of course, my dear

children--why not? Consider the letters, 'A' and 'A' entwined--it no

doubt stands for Adelaide Ashington. After all, it is rather rare to

have two 'A's' for your initials."

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

"Coronet? Why not? Miss Ashington and Lady Shard are daughters of Lord

Stilborough. They might have a coronet in a jewel, I daresay--just for

ornament. Crow, isn't Lady Shard's name 'Amelia'?"

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

Mary.

"Oh well, then," went on Mrs. Romilly, "I'm afraid, Addie dear, there

isn't much mystery.

"But look here, Mother," Adrian interrupted eagerly, for he disapproved

strongly of this explanation, "I say--you're not going to make me

believe that either Lady Shard or Auntie A. wandered about the Beak

cliff!"

"Oh no, not they, of course. But don't you see, Addie, the thing might

have been dropped and picked up by someone who wasn't honest. It may

even have been stolen. You know how utterly vague they both are, dear

souls, they'll forget and never miss it. Then the person who had it

might have gone on the cliff front--some servant--man-servant from

London, say--chauffeurs, anybody--I propose that someone goes up to

Crown Hill and hands it over to Auntie A. It is most certainly theirs."

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

said Pamela desperately.

"That sounds rather an awkward remark," commented Adrian, as they all

took their places round the table.

"I don't mean she'll steal it," explained Pam, very hot and worried,

"but what's the good of talking; everybody knows her. Whether it is

hers or not she'll forget Mother has sent it to her, and things will

drift vaguely."

"What would you do then?" asked Crow.

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

owner will claim it."

So said Pamela in the despairing hope of giving a chance to the

Countess, who would claim, of course, through Sir Marmaduke, if she did

not wish to appear in the matter.

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

"There's a lot of sense in Pam's notion, Mother," he said, "Auntie A. is

no more and no less than the White Queen in _Alice Through the

Looking-glass_--with just as much sense. She's an old dear, we all

know--but she'll give the thing to Charles to eat as soon as not; or

hand it to a beggar in mistake for sixpence! She doesn't know the

difference between her own hat and a church hassock."

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

"Well, Mum--you know Auntie A. I vote for the Police Station at

Ramsworthy. Let me take it there."

"I think we ought to try Crown Hill first," said his mother, quietly

persistent, as always, now the idea had once lodged in her brain.

"Who'll go?"

A wild impulse rushed into Pamela's brain. Should she offer to take it,

and return it to its rightful owner, trusting to the fact that Miss

Ashington would never remember whether she had received it or not? But

the thought occurred only to be rejected. It wouldn't do at all. It

would be horrid, and after all, suppose the brooch was given to Auntie

A., all she had to do was to tell the Countess, who could write to Sir

Marmaduke Shard and explain that the strange jewel was hers. That was

simple enough.

When the party dispersed after breakfast Pamela felt better. The path

seemed less encumbered. She decided to write to the Countess and to

take the letter herself and leave it at the gate. Miss Chance and

Hughie conveyed the precious parcel to Crown Hill with a letter from

Mrs. Romilly, and the other two went off to the bay to overhaul

_Messenger_ for a grand clean up and polish.

After several attempts Pamela wrote a note that satisfied her.

"Your safety pin brooch has been found on the Beak cliff and sent to

Miss Adelaide Ashington at Crown Hill. Because the initials are 'A.A.'

my mother thinks it must be hers or Lady Shard's. If you apply to them,

no doubt you can get it back.--P".

Having read this once or twice and finding it met the case, Pamela

folded the note neatly, sealed it with her own little silver seal, and

went out. She did not go straight up the road to Woodrising, but across

the valley, round through Crown Hill park, into the woods at the inland

end, and down the hill from the station.

Finding the road clear she rang the gate bell with vigour, handed the

message to Mrs. Trewby, with the sentence, "no answer, say, please," and

departed--not down the road past Fuchsia Cottage, but back up towards

Folly Ho, and over the hill behind on to the Bell Ridge above the

church, and so home, down the steep to the Bell House--in time for

lunch. The only person she met was Mr. John Badger of Champles, a large

and heavy man with the smallest possible twinkling eyes. There was no

harm in Mr. Badger--no harm at all, he was a kind man, but he had one

weakness and that was gossip. The largeness of his body was the very

opposite extreme to the size of his mind--which could not well have been

smaller. He was driving sheep from one fenced bit of his fields to

another--there was not much for them to eat on the Bell Ridge Downs and

they had to be kept to measured allowances or they would have wandered

away to look for something better.

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

"I like walking alone," answered Pamela.

"Well, well, no harm can't come to you these parts. No tramps don't

come up along these ways. You don't see no strangers about--can't call

Mrs. Chipman to Woodrising a stranger, same as she lived down along

Crown Hill some fifteen years."

"Oh," murmured Pamela, which was hardly a remark at all, but she felt as

though her mind had best remain a blank to all these questions. As for

discussing them, she did not wish to think about them, even.

"What a lovely view there is from here, Mr. Badger!" she rushed into

generalities, "don't you wonder if sheep see anything? Can they enjoy a

view, or do they see nothing at all?"

Mr. Badger opined that all the sheep cared about was a "belly-full",

which was no doubt very true.

Pamela left him gazing after her, and wondering why she had come up

there all alone. Mr. Badger saw mysteries and scandals in every

movement of his neighbours, which made life very interesting for him.

Pamela could see "plumb down" into Bell Bay as she went lower and lower

on a slope that rivalled the Beak, but was better holding-ground because

of ferns and stubby gorse. It seemed as though you could take a flying

jump on to the roof of the Bell House, among the twisted chimneys. She

could see the _Messenger_ at her moorings, looking like the loveliest

toy--white deck, white hull, and gold line glittering in the sunshine.

She saw the dinghy put off from her and come ashore--infinitely tiny,

with wee figures rowing, dressed in white, Addie and Crow. She heartily

wished that brooch had never been found; or if it was to be found, that

it might have been her fate to find it. It was bad luck Adrian coming

into the muddle. However, the Countess had only to write to Sir

Marmaduke and he could claim the jewel from Auntie A. and settle the

whole affair within three days. It was no use bothering about it any

longer.

In this mood Pamela arrived at home, looking lovely and happy, only to

be at once reminded of the business again by Miss Chance's report.

She and Hughie came across the lawn with the others, and the first thing

Pam heard was Adrian's eager information to his mother, who was sitting

on the terrace outside the drawing-room windows.

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

to give it up."

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

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

confused----"

"She always is," Adrian interrupted.

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

"It really was not easy to gather her opinion, dear Mrs. Romilly,

because it seemed that Miss Ashington had been administering a decoction

of herbs--I think on Adrian's advice--to the spaniel. She was anxious

and perturbed as she thought the poor dog was suffering."

"Oh, laurel water! My only aunt, what a priceless situation!" murmured

Adrian, and collapsed on the grass.

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

"What did Addie advise?" inquired her mother.

Christobel was careful.

"Mummy, she told us she was going to make tea out of sage or--I don't

know--some filth she'd heard or read about it. I expect she's given

Charles a dose; I don't wonder he's in pain. But, Miss Chance, did she

say anything about Lady Shard and the brooch? That is the thing that

matters."

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

was disconnected."

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

"We must leave it for the present. There's the lunch bell--hurry,

everybody," advised Mrs. Romilly, getting up and passing an arm through

Christobel's.

"Mother, I wish we'd never sent it to Crown Hill," said Crow, as they

went in at the big window. "Will you promise to ask about its fate?

Don't let's lose it. After all, Addie found it, and failing an owner he

ought to have it."

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

dropped for the moment.

Nothing more happened about it except that, missing Hughie, Pamela

sought him in "the cave" later on, where he was absorbed in making a

doll's ulster out of a bit of checked fluffy material that had been

given to Hennery Doe to make strips of, wherewith to fasten down the

arms of plum trees on the north wall. Hughie, seeing infinite

possibilities in the bit of stuff, had calmly annexed it, and it was now

taking shape, the "arm-sleeves" proving a tough problem, owing to the

thickness of the stuff and the smallness of the doll.

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

"There's a new bother, Midget."

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

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

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

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

"She might go and ask for it."

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

quickly.

"She's the kind of person who might do things you didn't think about. I

don't care for that sort of girl." Hughie spoke as one with life-long

experience. "You'd better look out, Pam."

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

cross with Hughie.

"Well," said the Midget, recognizing that she had much excuse, "we may

as well both look out, for I'm pretty sure she's rather a tiresome

person."

That was all the comfort Pamela received, but poor as it was, in a way

it did comfort her; there was something so imperturbable about Hughie,

it made her feel less inclined to exaggerate.

Evening fell, rather dark, because the moon rose late. Miss Adelaide

Ashington sat outside in the broad tessellated piazza, that ran along

the south-west front of Crown Hill house. It was a handsome house;

white, in the Italian style; the gardens were beautiful when in good

order. Auntie A. had her breakfast outside as a rule, often her tea--but

not dinner, because lights being necessary--for eating at any rate, when

your dinner-hour is late--she was afraid moths and other creatures would

fly into the lamps. So she sat out after dinner, in the growing

shadows, sipped coffee, and comforted Charles, who was recovering from

internal disorder.

A tall slim figure came towards her from the gardens, walking with easy

assurance among the shadowy flowerbeds. Charles heaved himself up on his

cushion, and barked weightily in a strangled manner. Miss Ashington,

looking about for the cause, said:

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

Charles choked in his endeavours to express disapproval, and "our dear

Pamela" came up to the piazza and greeted his mistress.

She said it was a lovely evening, but her feet were wet with the dew;

she leaned against a pillar, and, turning up one slim foot, looked at

the sole of her shoe. Miss Ashington looked at it also, in a vague kind

of manner--she could not see, but she was disturbed to know it was wet.

"Surely it is late for you to be out, dear child," said Auntie A.,

"_hush_, Charles, be quiet, you know very well who it is--now let me

call Dickens and she will find you dry shoes--what about Mollie's--I

really cannot allow----"

"But I must go back at once," said the girl, "please do not call

anyone," as Miss Ashington hunted on her table for the brass hand-bell

that was supposed to be at her elbow, but was always underneath other

things, "please do not. I came from my mother to say, may she have the

safety-pin brooch with the diamond crown that Adrian found on the

cliff--that she sent to you--because the owner is found."

"Ah, the brooch with A initials--yes--yes--yes--now _where_," murmured

Auntie A. "I think I had better ring for Dickens----" she hunted for

the bell and the table fell over.

Charles coughed himself into convulsions.

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

"Dear child" was on her knee hunting, with the bell safely covered by

her skirt. She was searching among the overturned articles with the

desperate hope of finding what she came for, instinct suggesting that it

might easily be actually on the table.

It was. That is to say, it had been put into Miss Ashington's wicker

work-basket, which, having fallen over also, upside down, had emptied

its contents on the tiled floor. The brass bell clattered, the reels of

cotton spun about driving Charles into delirium, but the searcher cared

for none of these things, for she had seen the sudden glint of the

diamonds in a ray of light that the drawing-room lamps threw out across

the pavement.

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

this right."

She set the table up, bundled the obvious contents of the work-basket

back into place, seized the papers, books, wool, finally the bell--and

put them on the table--in doing so she rang the bell, and on the instant

was upon her feet, straightening her shady hat.

"Thank you, thank you, Miss Ashington--and I must now go--my shoes are

so wet. You will forgive me that I go at once."

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

As Miss Ashington looked round to speak to her, Pamela melted into the

shadows like a wraith.

"Is that you, Farr?" Auntie A. was rather flustered. "We had an

accident. No, I didn't ring--not intentionally--the table fell over.

Take care you don't slip on a reel, they are so treacherous and the

pavement is very---- Oh, _poor_ little Charles, he was so upset and

quite resented a visitor at this time of night!"

"You must have been surprised yourself, ma'am," said Farr, making

conversation as she chased reels, thimbles, and mysterious little

bundles that were perfectly useless.

"Miss Pamela came for the diamond brooch--I think I told you that Mrs.

Romilly sent it to me believing it to be mine because of the initial.

Mr. Adrian discovered it--on the cliff--at least I fancy that was

what--thank you, Farr---- You see my poor Charles was so ill this

morning, that--however, I'd quite forgotten where I put it, but it fell

out of the work-basket when---- Of course a summer night is not like

any other time of year, but I could not help feeling that Miss Pamela

should have had an escort."

"I saw Miss Romilly from the window, ma'am," said Farr, picking up the

coffee tray from its special stool, "tall young lady she's growing; very

stylish too; 'er 'air is beautiful."

"So it is--so it is--lovely hair. I'm very fond of that child. I hope

she has not caught cold. I fancied she was a little hoarse to-night,

quite likely if she runs about like this in such a heavy dew. I think

I'll come in now, Farr, if you will kindly carry Charles' basket."

*CHAPTER XIV*

*"If anybody dies, it'll be her,"

said Hughie*

It must have been about a week after that when Hughie, passing by

Pamela's door with a view to making himself tidy for lunch, heard a

sound of stifled sobbing. He stood still, quite shocked. Here was an

unprecedented state of things, and one outside his experience, because

Pam was a cheerful interested person, always busy, never morbid. It was

horrible.

Hughie had been in "the cave" since breakfast and was on his way to his

room rather "delicately" like King Agag, because he knew his mother

would wish him to be out of doors, and he had shirked the boat and the

bay to finish some particular job of his own devising. Meanwhile

something had been happening, obviously. But what?

He opened the door which was not locked, and put his head into the room.

Pamela was lying on her bed face downwards, crying bitterly.

Hughie shut the door, then he walked close up to the bed, and very very

gently pulled the heavy plait of hair that fell across her shoulders and

on to the counterpane. Immediately there was a change in the tone of the

sobs. A choke--then silence--then a faint cough, then a sigh--Pamela

changed her position a little, and felt for a lost handkerchief.

Hughie, noting the missing article on the pillow, put it into her hand.

A minute after that she raised herself into a sitting posture, and

looked at him; her pretty eyes were heavy and swelled, and her lips

trembled.

"Pam," said Hughie, cut to the heart yet reserved, "I expect it's that

woman?"

Pamela nodded and blew her nose.

"Well, what's she been doing now?" To show that he was come to stop,

Hughie dropped noiselessly to the floor and sat cross-legged, clasping

an ankle in either hand.

Pamela cleared her throat and said in a tone that tried hard to be

indifferent and casual.

"Mother thinks--I've stolen that brooch--and told a lie--because----"

stifled silence ensued.

"Well," said Hughie, "that's very ridiculous."

"Not when you hear--what it's about----" again there was a pause, then

starting on a lower note altogether Pamela said:

"Mother wanted to hear about the brooch, Addie made her. So, after a

week, you see, she wrote to Miss Ashington and asked what had happened

and if it was hers--I mean if the brooch was. This morning Auntie A.

sent down a note--all scrawly and covered with blots and half the words

left out as usual," this description was emphasized bitterly, "and she

said--she said that I fetched the brooch on the same evening you and

Miss Chance took it--you remember, Midget, a week ago to-day."

"I know," agreed Hughie, "the morning Charles ate the laurel water."

"Yes, well she says, _I_ came in the evening about nine, or half-past

nine, and said Mother sent me for the brooch, and she gave it to me--she

says a good deal more; something about her work-basket being upset; but

anyway _I_ took the brooch away, and there's an end to it."

"Why, it was the girl--my goodness, she's a funny person!" said Hughie.

"She's a beast. She's a perfect beast without any decency or sense of

honour," declared Pamela in a stormy burst of indignation. "I told her

to write to Sir Marmaduke and ask him to claim it from Auntie A. It was

perfectly simple. Then she goes and plays this low trick again."

"You'd better tell about her," suggested Hughie with interest.

"I said I wouldn't. She said it would get her into awful trouble."

"Well, she gets you into trouble."

"I know, but, Midget, she's all alone--her mother seems to be dead; her

father was killed in the War. Fancy being shut up with Chipman and no

one decent to speak to! You see, I don't _blame_ her for trying to get

her brooch back--she might do that----"

"It was rather clever," Hughie chuckled suddenly, "a sort of short cut,

Pam."

"I daresay, but people oughtn't to use short cuts that hurt other people

so awfully."

"She's selfish," said Hughie gravely, "_fearfully_ selfish, she doesn't

care when the others get hurt."

There was a long pause; then Pamela announced that she wasn't coming

down to dinner; she told him that Mrs. Romilly had gone off to Crown

Hill to see Miss Ashington.

"What did Mum say to you?" asked Hughie.

"Nothing. Not a word--she gave me the letter to read."

"What did you say?"

"I was feeling so sick and awful, I don't know what I said--except that

I didn't go at all. It sounded so helpless in the face of that letter."

"I think I'll go to dinner," announced Hughie suddenly, and he picked

himself up, dusting himself in an incomplete manner.

"You can have my brush and comb, Midget, if you like," suggested Pamela,

lying down again in a languid manner. "Oh dear, I wish I was dead.

People say when there are two of a person one always dies. I hope it'll

be me."

This was very gloomy. Hughie gazed at her from under his brows as he

brushed his hair. Then he looked at his hands, appeared satisfied that

their condition would pass the eagle-eyed inspection of the Floweret,

and walked to the door. From there he said:

"If anybody dies it'll be her," and went, closing the door quietly

behind him. Pamela felt comforted.

Dinner was proceeding in the dining-room, in a horribly uncomfortable

manner, because the three persons present all knew of this amazing state

of things, and not one knew what to say. Hughie slid into his chair and

was helped to mince without comment. Miss Chance was doing her best to

keep up a pretence that nothing was the matter, and welcomed her

youngest pupil as an ally, but Hughie was glum.

"Now," said the Floweret hopefully, "_do_ let us settle about a picnic.

I am sure Hughie will side with me. Adrian, what about an alliance

between boats and pedestrians--to Ramsworthy Cove, for instance--or

farther; the sands at Netheroot looked so inviting when we passed the

other day, I always contend there are no such sands anywhere. Come now,

what do you say?"

Adrian was talking to Crow in a low voice. He glanced up.

"Beg your pardon, Miss Chance, I didn't hear what you said;" then,

dropping his voice,

"It's not a bit of good shutting one's eyes to facts, Crow. I confess I

don't understand this latest business--it sounds insane--but Pamela's

hiding something up her sleeve; besides, I'll swear she never got little

Ensor up the Beak by----"

"Oh, don't go on about that, Addie. I'm sick of the very name of that

cliff. If the Ensors say she did, and Reuben declares she carried

him--he told me so again when I went yesterday--it's idiotic to keep on

nagging about it. Let's drop the Beak once for all, and as for this

latest business, as you call it, I won't believe it. I refuse to

believe it on the authority of Auntie A.; she's so--well--perhaps I'd

better not say what I think."

It was seldom that Crow was heard to speak thus savagely. She was quite

unlike herself, just as Pamela appeared to be! But she was angry,

chiefly with circumstances, and in any case nothing should induce her to

believe such a thing about dear old Pam. It was outrageous. Pam, who

was the soul of generosity and straightforwardness, to go to Miss

Ashington and tell a lie to get hold of a valuable brooch! The thing

was a glaring insult to her character and to the whole Romilly family.

That was Crow's opinion.

Hughie looked up at his eldest sister with approval. Christobel was so

gentle that an attack from her was an event.

"What do you think, Hughie?" she asked.

"It's silly," was the brief answer, "and can I have some gooseberry pie,

Crow?"

"What does it matter what Hughie thinks?" said Adrian, feeling a little

injured.

Hughie ate gooseberries and spoke not, but he wondered what they would

say if they knew what he knew!

However, matters got worse instead of better. Mrs. Romilly came back

sooner than they expected; she had not had lunch at Crown Hill, she had

declined it saying she must go home. However, she would not eat, but

went off to the drawing-room with Crow and Adrian. Hughie took the

opportunity to collect food for Pamela. Tartlets, cake, and a tempting

little veal pie from the sideboard. Laden with this he retired upstairs

and entered Pamela's room again with difficulty, putting the plate on

the floor while he opened the door.

"There was mince, and gooseberry pie as well, Pam," he said, setting the

plate down on the bed, "but I couldn't bring it, because it was loose,

these things are hard--it's rather a comfort there was some hard stuff

about--but, any way, Jeepy would give me some."

"Jeepy" was Mrs. Jeep--cook, house-keeper, and adorer-in-chief amongst

Hughie's train of admirers.

"That child's intelleck is beyond telling," was a favourite assertion of

Mrs. Jeep's, and one with a good deal of truth in it.

The servants had, of course, picked up the rumour of strange behaviour

on the part of Miss Pamela, and Keziah, keeping Patty out of it, of

course, with sharp injunctions about "little pitchers" and "long ears",

had whispered to Mrs. Jeep that there certainly was something in it.

"Times and times," asserted Keziah, "I've seen her lately. Well, out of

my window one night; she was going along the terrace, here near eleven

and after. I must say it's not pretty behaviour. And I'm not the only

one neither. When I went up to Badger's for eggs, he said to me: 'One

of your young ladies seems to take her walks abroad.' 'Well, Mr.

Badger,' I said, 'and why not? I suppose the country is made for walks.

I'm walking myself,' I said, 'and so are you.' I said----" she stopped,

breathless.

"Glad you was brief with him," said Mrs. Jeep in a slow comfortable

voice, "I don't hold with such folks being so free with gentry's names.

They ought to know better, but there's a many don't know their places

these times. The mistress is put out though; upset she is, and I don't

like to see it, for you never see no bad feeling nor goings on in this

house--nice children they are, and have been from babies--the lot of

them. Mr. Malcolm just such another as Master Hughie, very inventive in

his ways, always some notion in his head."

There was sympathy and curiosity too in the kitchen, though Patty Inglis

the between-maid was allowed to ask no questions, and sharply

reprimanded by Mrs. Jeep and Keziah for the least appearance of

interest.

Meanwhile Mrs. Romilly sat in her chair in the drawing-room resting her

cheek on her hand. Christobel on a stool close by patted the other hand

reassuringly. Adrian looked out of the window, for of all things he

could least bear to see his mother unhappy.

"I see no way out of it," said Mrs. Romilly after relating Auntie A.'s

story, "of course she was vague and wandering, and repeated herself as

usual--that's nothing--the thing that matters is perfectly clear--Pamela

went there about half-past nine--she had gone to her room we all

know--she stayed only a few minutes and seemed in a hurry. She would

have been in a hurry naturally. Miss Ashington said she seemed nervous

and unlike herself, and her voice was husky, or low--well, not quite the

same. That also we can account for easily enough, because Pam is by no

means a practised deceiver----"

"I don't think it is _proved_ that she is a deceiver at all, Mother, let

alone practised!"

So said Christobel in a low voice, unshaken by evidence.

"Dear old Crow," murmured Mrs. Romilly in rather a choked voice, "I like

you to feel so; but, well _Farr_ saw her too, and remarked how tall she

was growing and how lovely her hair is--so it is, lovely." Mrs. Romilly

gave a little cough, and hastily changed her position; then suddenly a

tear fell with a tiny splash on the back of Christobel's stroking hand.

"Oh, Mummy!" she exclaimed.

"How silly of me, darling. I didn't mean to--but I don't understand,

and I can't bear to be--well--outside with you children--we've always

got on so well, and had no secrets. This----"

There was a tense silence.

Adrian, having spoken no word up till now, had been growing more and

more angry with the world in general.

"It's a jolly old muddle," he declared suddenly. "Honestly, Mother, it's

not reasonable to suppose Pamela would be such a silly ass as to march

up to Crown Hill and publicly say you sent her for a diamond brooch, and

then swear she hadn't been! I ask you now, is it feasible? It's sheer

blazing idiocy. _If_ she did she's mad and ought to be put in an

asylum. It isn't even criminal, it's drivelling. As for Auntie A.--now

_she_ is mad. Always has been. Well, I should say she'd dreamed the

whole business if Farr was out of it. You say Farr saw Pamela; did Farr

tell you, or did Auntie A. speak for Farr?"

"Oh, Miss Ashington told me what Farr remarked about Pam's----"

"_There_ you are then. Bet you the whole thing is some mad vision of

Auntie A.'s! Sure of it. She was asleep on the verandah and when you

asked for the brooch, having lost it, she says this----"

"But, darling boy, she wouldn't invent----"

"Not intentionally, Mother, but she's got a roving imagination, we see

that every week. One time she's teaching pigs to kill themselves in

order to save the butcher's feelings! Another time she wants to train

calves to drive the sheep to market in order that land girls need never

get up! _Don't_ believe her, Mother dear, and for any sake don't sorrow

about her rotten fairy tales. They'll find that brooch in Charles'

stomach when he dies of over-eating--if she hasn't been wearing it all

the while herself. Oh, I say, _do_ let's shut up all this misery, Mum.

An atmosphere of crime and sorrow is enough to make one ache to be back.

Let's cut it out, and cease persecuting wretched Pamela, because Auntie

A. is a lunatic."

If it did nothing else, this speech made Mrs. Romilly "sit up and take

notice", as her son said cheerfully a few minutes later. Presently she

went upstairs; and fortified by a "nice cup o' tea" made and brought up,

and administered by Mrs. Jeep herself, really did begin to think there

might be something in what Adrian said.

"Men are very level-headed," thought Mrs. Romilly, "they are not so

emotional and impressionable as we are; after all, of course, poor

Auntie A. is very vague."

Out of doors Crow and the level-headed one went down to the bay in

company. Sisters are given to a certain clearness of vision not always

vouchsafed to mothers. Said Christobel:

"Addie--do you _really_ think all that you said to Mother about Miss

Ashington and Pam?"

"Of course I don't," promptly answered the shameless Adrian, "Miss

Ashington is mad, right enough--raving--ought to be chained up before

she drives all the farmers dotty, but she saw Pam right enough--so did

Farr."

"But, Addie----"

"Oh, I know--you're going to say one ought not to believe the evidence

of one's own sight if it is against people you love. You must--till

one's got something more reliable to see with than eyes. All the same

life's not worth living if Mother is in a distraught condition--and

nobody comes to meals except the Floweret trying to draw us all together

by bonds of family love. If she's 'bright' again at tea-time I shall

take the yawl to Salterne and stay there. If Pam has got the thing it's

her look-out, she won't enjoy having it--as I said before, she's been

awfully queer lately."

In order to check another allusion to the Beak, Christobel suddenly

proposed bathing from the yacht.

"Time for a heavenly one before tea," she suggested.

Adrian forgot all the sorrows of the household in an instant and

received the plan with a cheer; they two went with a rush, which carried

them breathless and giggling on to the sands among the seaweedy rocks

and the anemone-peopled pools. Here was Hughie--testing secretly a

storm or wind anchor that he had invented. Adrian upset him into a sea

pool--which Hughie did not mind, because it diverted attention from the

wind anchor--then the two elders proceeded to haul the dinghy down and

make preparations.

"Whole day since we came," remarked Adrian regretfully, "what waste!"

"She wants washing inside," commented Crow, rubbing certain dirt marks

with her fingers. "Look, this isn't a tennis shoe--it's a heel!"

"I'd like to catch anybody messing about with her," said Adrian

wrathfully, then Christobel suggested it might be the Floweret.

"She sits in the dinghy with a book sometimes you know, Addie, when the

rocks are extra wet. I don't know why; probably it makes her feel

adventurous and buccaneering."

They got the little boat down, and rowed off into the bay--lovely it

was, warm and smooth, with a faint swell coming in from outside, the

swell that causes a rushing ripple to rise over the hard ridged sand,

filling the tiny rock ponds and making the littlest crabs wave their

legs about and scamper for the shelter of miniature weed forests. It

was a divine day, and a divine scene; brother and sister felt it and

cast off the dreariness that had clouded the morning.

They reached the yawl in an utterly joyous frame of mind, and whirled on

board anyhow. Then Adrian said in rather a startled voice:

"Hullo, Crow, didn't we leave that door open? Surely, surely we did,

because we both said it was whiffy inside--who shut it then?"

"Wind, of course," said Crow indifferently.

"My good girl----"