"Oh don't, Addie--hurry up--get into the fore-cabin or where you like,

but hurry, or we shan't have half a swim. I won't say 'time flies',

because it's too copy-book--but I'll remind you that tea is half-past

four. Get on."

So saying, Christobel took possession of the saloon--"according to

plan", as we used to hear in the days of the War, and Adrian disappeared

down the fore-hatch. This was the standing arrangement for bathing--as

the whole party of Romilly boys and girls could swim like ducks; they

learned when babies almost--it was family law.

Christobel did not take long to get ready as a rule, but she took longer

than she meant because several small matters seemed to her to be

differently placed, or untidy. As everyone knows who inhabits a yacht of

say six to eight tons, there must be a place for everything, and

everything in that place. It had always been so on the _Messenger_.

Every shining hook had its cup, or jug. Every plate or saucer fitted

into its own groove. Kitchen things--polished like

looking-glasses--were placed along barred shelves, and kettles sat in

wells made to fit them.

To-day something was a little wrong. Crow frowned at the hooks and

racks, as she pinned her hair up under a rubber cap--this and that

seemed to have changed places--or she thought so. The cushions on the

settees in the saloon were certainly wrong--all on one side. Adrian

must have been right about the door; that was perhaps part of the

invasion. She thought of calling out to her brother and then decided

not to, because if she said anything Addie would make a point of locking

up the yawl every night, and the result would be that peculiar something

in the stuffiness that always made her feel sick.

Christobel was not a perfect sailor like Adrian and Hughie--neither of

them could be swept off their balance, but Christobel could. So much

so, that she had at times borne agonies in silence rather than spoil

Adrian's day. She was seldom actually sick, but she felt a horrible

nausea and faintness, and the one thing that would precipitate this

condition was that mixture of paraffin, varnish, cushion stuffing, and

station-waiting-room-stale-sandwich smell, that came up from the saloon

when the closed doors were opened; for once locked up there could be no

ventilation naturally--without water getting in also; not in so small a

boat, for the fore-hatch must be battened down and bolted inside before

the companion door was locked outside.

All this occurred to Crow in time to stop her making remarks on her

suspicions. After all, she could not remember who came out of the cabin

last. Again Penberthy might have gone on board--he might even have

taken Major Fraser with him, which would account for the gravel and dirt

marks on the dinghy.

Just as she came to this conclusion she heard Adrian's dive and a few

seconds after his shout for her, so she ran up, and went over the side

with the clean sweep of a first-rate swimmer. That was the end of

questionings--for the time.

*CHAPTER XV*

*In which Hughie takes Action*

It has been said, even in this story, that important situations often

arise from ridiculously small happenings. Everybody knows it so well

that one apologizes for such a stale reflection.

However, in the present instance the thing that led up to the very small

happening was tea at Fuchsia Cottage, to which all four were invited,

and all four went. The Little Pilgrim's teas were "things of beauty,

and joys for ever", the pleasure never palled, because she had

particular scones, buns, cakes and jams that other people knew not of,

and her table decorations were as original as they were lovely. She

held a theory that people ought to eat a great deal at tea, which was

delightful when it fell in with the idea of the guests. There was no

"company" about it, from first to last it was sheer satisfaction.

This day was no exception to the rule, and for reasons that can be well

understood the young Romillys positively jumped at the invitation. It

would be freedom from the atmosphere that seemed to spoil everything at

the Bell House.

True to Adrian's suggestion, Mrs. Romilly had ignored the mystery of the

diamond brooch. She treated Pamela as always--or tried to. But she was

pale and absent in manner, and it was a daily stab to poor Pam to look

up suddenly and find her mother's eyes watching her with a sort of

appeal in their blue depths. Pamela on her part was obviously unhappy,

her small face was smaller still, and her grey-blue eyes looked darker.

In spite of the heroic efforts of the elder pair, who pulled the

business of life along like a pair of well-matched horses, it was not

the same perfectly happy life that it had been in the spring and always

before in the memory of the children.

Miss Lasarge saw there was something the matter, but the Romilly family

had the sense to wash its own linen at home. No one in the house

"confided" woes outside. Also, Miss Lasarge had, at the time,

considerable anxiety on her own shoulders, which she kept to herself, of

course; the sympathy being no less for everybody.

So she asked them to tea, and they came. And the party was one of the

most perfect she had ever invented, with rose petals in all shades of

pink making a pattern round the delightful dishes. Tongues were

loosened by the sense of festivity, even Hughie talked; everybody

talked, except Pamela, who looked tired.

They stayed until after six o'clock, and then the Little Pilgrim walked

down to the gate with them. Outside in the road they stood talking over

the gate, as people do loath to go. Adrian was talking about the yawl,

he and Christobel laughing over some of the adventures.

"We go out most days," he said.

Miss Lasarge looked towards the west and the clear sky over the sea.

"It is promising for to-morrow?" she asked; her gaze wandered to the

white wall over the road, that high glass-topped wall that enclosed

Woodrising.

"Oh, rather!"

"Don't you think you are very lucky?" She asked this question suddenly

of Addie, in the soft hesitating tone natural to her.

"Lucky, I should think so! It's awfully jolly of Sir Marmaduke to let

us have _Messenger_."

"I was thinking of something bigger than that--I mean, _wider_--than

just a yacht. It's the _freedom_, Adrian. Of the sea, of the shore, of

the woods--that's what I meant. You see, there are prisoners."

"Oh, not _now_, Little Pilgrim," Christobel expostulated, "we've got

them all home, thank God, by this time."

"Ours! Oh, yes, I hope we have, I believe we have; but I was

thinking----"

"Miss Anne, please don't ask us to feel--well, sentimental--about German

prisoners," said Adrian in rather a hard voice; he was digging a hole in

the road with his stick, as a vent for his feelings, "they've had a good

time in England."

"Oh no, dear, it was something quite different that was in my mind, I

assure you. Only, what one feels is--value freedom--it is so wonderful

really."

"Expect it is, one jolly well takes it for granted though, doesn't one,

Crow?" Adrian strongly objected to strenuous remarks, whatever the

subject. "Well, Miss Anne, thanks awfully, we've had a ripping time,

your party was simply top-hole. Think of Crow and me enjoying freedom.

Oh, by the way, it's 'the freedom of the seas', isn't it? Early

to-morrow, all being well, we want to go to Salterne."

"For the day, or what?" asked Miss Lesarge, smiling.

"For the day," agreed Crow. "As usual, Addie wants his hair cut, and

the only man he approves of is in Union Street. We anchor the yawl and

come back late; the tides have come round by now, to a nice useful

arrangement. Miss Anne, you know Mother doesn't mind now if we sleep on

board, as long as we are inside the estuary. That gives us a grand long

time to do things."

All this was said in the road, you will remember. Adrian and Christobel

possessed clear voices that carried; they did not modulate them to any

great extent; lastly the white wall was only the width of the road from

this conversation.

Neither Pamela nor Hughie spoke, yet they two realized with a sort of

shock what the meaning was behind Miss Anne's little eager protest about

"prisoners". She knew, she must know! She was just thinking out loud

her own gentle pity for the girl behind the white wall. Pamela saw it

so on the instant, and with a flash of memory recalled the large dull

old-fashioned drawing-room at Woodrising, and the girl sitting alone,

trying to be interested in a book. And she can climb, thought Pam

suddenly, perhaps she was used to mountains; why not? Anyway, she must

be accustomed to great possessions, to woods and parks, to great

estates! A new view of the case brightened Pamela's mind. Miss Anne was

looking at her, their eyes met and the girl smiled, then turned pink,

and looked away.

"I wonder!" thought the Little Pilgrim.

Pam was wondering also. Hughie had made up his mind, undoubtedly Miss

Anne knew about the girl; that was interesting, but Hughie's estimate of

the situation was not like his sister's; there was no sentiment, and no

pity in it. He was purely practical. "She might have to stop inside

Woodrising," he thought, "then it would be different. But she tells

lies and comes out on the sly; she steals things and lets Pam bear the

blame. Miss Lasarge doesn't know."

So he looked at Miss Lasarge with a shrewd pitying gaze as he lifted his

cap for good-night, and made no remark on the way home.

The evening was uneventful, and a voyage to Salterne was planned for

next day as Adrian suggested. Pamela was asked to go and said she

would; Hughie refused, he had his own scheme.

Then the household went to bed, and to sleep, but let it be understood

that the small matter, namely that little talk outside Miss Anne's gate,

had set in motion a far more important event, which was yet to happen.

Hughie slept with his window open, of course; he was a very light

sleeper, indeed he said he could hear the crabs' toes clatter as they

ran out of one pool into another. This statement might have been

exaggerated, but the fact remains that he could hear most things;

therefore, when he woke up in the night he realized that a noise from

outside had been the cause. He lay still and listened for sounds in the

house.

All was still; also all was dark, because the moon did not rise till

early morning, and at present was giving her best moonshine in the

day-time.

Hughie waited with a sense of growing alertness, and presently slid out

of bed, climbed on the window-seat, and looked towards the bay. Soft,

velvety darkness, ripple of water, and faint reflected shine on the sea,

was all he heard and saw.

"Tiresome!" considered Hughie, not reassured by all this peace. He felt

trouble afoot.

Motionless he sat, as some small wild thing of the jungle; motionless,

but alive in every muscle.

From the bay came a sudden knock of wood on wood, just the noise a

person recognizes who understands boats and would never mistake it for

anything else.

"Dinghy," thought the Midget, and, without more ado, he slid from his

seat and put on some clothes that would not be conspicuous; so careful

was he, indeed, that he got out stockings, articles he hated in summer;

but bare white legs show in the dark. Presently he was complete. Serge

knickers and sweater, blue stockings and sandshoes. Then he opened his

door and looked out. No sound, a pitch dark, silent house.

Hughie's mind was intent on the garden door. The big front door was

bolted and barred and would make a noise if opened. The back door

possessed a terribly stiff key that turned with a shriek. Jeepy would

not have it oiled; she would not have it touched for mysterious reasons

of her own connected with the possible bad conduct of Patty Ingles! It

was a far-fetched idea, but it kept the key rusty, so that was no good.

There remained the children's door, as it had always been called, the

door into the garden, just beyond Pamela's window. It would not do for

her to hear. Hughie wanted to do this business entirely off his own

bat, so to speak, and of all things he did not wish to have "people

making a row", so he hoped the door would not betray him.

As it happened, poor Pam was sleeping rather heavily. She had had many

restless nights, but something in those words of Miss Anne's had made a

difference. Things were not so hopelessly unjust; she did not feel so

ill-used quite. So she slept soundly, and Hughie, moving like Sherlock

Holmes and "Raffles" rolled into one, as only he could, got out of the

house without a creak or a scratch, closed the door, and found himself

on the end terrace under Pam's window close to the sea-wall.

Every stone being familiar, he went straight from there along the grass

border of the walk, guiding himself by the wall. Once he stopped and

listened intently, when he heard that little bump again--it was a

slightly grinding bump at irregular intervals. Hughie knew now what it

was--the dinghy against the rocks. It might mean that the little boat

had got loose and was being shifted this way and that by the tide.

There was nothing exciting about that, of course, but Hughie was

convinced that something more was being enacted--there was human agency

at work.

He came to the end of the wall, went through the gate, round, and then

down towards the rocks. Now here was necessity for careful going,

because of the darkness, and he wished heartily he had stayed to get the

little electric torch that stood on the library writing-table. However,

knowing the bay by heart made it easier, and every minute his eyes were

more used to the dark.

The sand felt cool and hard; there was plenty of it, because the tide

was just starting to rise steadily and creep into the pools. Hughie

knew this must be so, of course--partly because he understood tides, but

particularly in this instance owing to Adrian's plan for the morning.

They were to start early for Salterne, while there was still enough of

the tide to take them. It could not have been long since the tide

turned; he tried to calculate, and succeeded in realizing that the faint

greyness that lay in the night was not "moon", but morning coming. And

that was what made a chill, fresher than a night wind.

Presently he found the dinghy, and felt all over her with understanding

hands. The sculls were there--rolling a little, improperly placed. She

was broadside on to the beach, heaving up a little on the wash.

"She simply _never_ went down by herself," decided Hughie, and thought

over the matter deeply.

Her normal position was a good way up the shore. In stormy weather well

above high-water mark--but last night in a comfortable position for

loading a basket and oddments--on the sand, with her little anchor fixed

between two rocks. The anchor had been lifted and was put in the bows.

The dinghy could not have done that to herself! No need to argue; the

question was answered.

_Someone_ had taken the boat out, and sent her adrift! When you come to

think of it, this was an odd thing to happen in the night--more than odd

in Bell Bay. Almost unbelievable, because you might leave anything

about and all your doors and windows open in such a garden of friends as

the valley.

The conclusion Hughie came to was that no native of Bell Bay had done

it. He had little doubt who was the offender, and stood still

considering his next move.

_Why_ should Pam's double want to go out aboard the yawl at such an

hour? Crow having said nothing at all to anyone about her suspicions

with regard to meddling in the saloon; of course Hughie knew nothing

about that, and the idea came to him in all its startling freshness.

However, having convinced his reason, he quickly decided on the next

action.

"I'd better go and find her," said Hughie to himself in the low murmur

with which he held "doll" conversations.

As the tide was rising he had small difficulty in pushing the dinghy

down; she was the lightest make, varnished--a first-rate little craft

with the power of standing much more than her slight appearance

suggested. A very fortunate thing, as it proved afterwards.

The little boy got in, balanced himself in the stern to lighten the

bows, and pushed off deftly; then he sat down, took the sculls, and

looked about him into the dark. The sculls, small as they were, were

too big for his hands, but he was strong and amazingly tenacious--he

never gave up what his heart was set on.

"She can't get away," he murmured again, and, as the idea took his

fancy, he gave a sudden little wriggle of amusement.

Then he sculled out to the _Messenger_ with very short light strokes,

wonderfully noiseless. He went into the thick of the dark, thick

because the mistiness of dawn was there--it was what people called "the

darkest hour before the dawn", starless, moonless, softly thick. Having

gone a short distance, Hughie turned the dinghy round gently by rowing

one oar, and, having got his craft stern first, he began to push

steadily with both sculls. He knew he would soon find the yawl--but all

in a moment, and he must be prepared not to bump.

To his quick ear came a sound; he stopped and listened. It was

water--rippling against an obstacle--the incoming tide driving past the

bows of the yacht. He had not far to go, because _Messenger_ was

pulling the length of her chain cables inshore--a very different

position from the one she would have held in a strong ebb, as she lay

then almost under the shadow of the Bell Ridge point, the height to the

north of the cove.

Hughie pushed his craft cleverly up to the counter, shipped his sculls,

and gripped the stern rail as he stood up. It was neatly done. He

pushed the dinghy a little farther, holding on till he got the bows in

position, then he bent the towing rope--the painter--on to the rail, and

climbed up. Being there he made sure of the painter--he never left

things to chance like Adrian did, and he possessed in a remarkable

degree the quick neatness of the born sailor's handling of things.

Having finished, he stood still and looked about.

The deck showed white. The mainsail was not stowed, but just let down

and lightly lashed, ready to haul up quickly in the morning: there was

nothing to hurt it but dew--dew was everywhere and the footing slippery.

As he stood looking along the shadowy white outline against which the

mast rose oddly black, and the rigging seemed like black spiders' web,

Hughie again wished he had the torch. Then an idea struck him entirely

to his taste. It was better certainly to be in the dark, especially as

he knew where the matches were kept. All was well.

He stepped off the counter down into the well and looked at the

companion doors--open half-way. Hughie gave a cursory examination to

that, and then went along the deck to find out the state of the

fore-hatch. That was lifted sideways an inch or two--Adrian had slipped

a marline-spike under the edge of it to insure a draught. Without

question this had not been touched. She was inside, and she had entered

by the companion.

Hughie crept back along the side of the deck-house roof, let himself

down, and took a seat on the companion steps. He wanted to listen, also

he was reviewing the position and the probabilities. What would this

girl do? He had never been at close quarters, or even near her, but

when one is only seven and small, without being a coward it is

reasonable to calculate chances of warfare with a person double that age

and strong.

Hughie considered the black, silent interior that showed through the

opening, then he murmured in the faintest whisper--under cover of the

tide-rush rippling against the bows.

"If she kills me she'll be hung." It was a comforting thought to have

British law on his side. Sir Marmaduke would see justice done

undoubtedly, in spite of his mysterious dealings with the stranger.

"She's his prisoner," thought Hughie, which seemed simple enough.

He was as noiseless as a cat, and as wiry--he slipped through the gap

into the darkness within and proceeded on all fours. In his mind was a

certain small and neat lantern belonging to Adrian--it was plated, and

fitted with a bit of candle in such a way that nothing disturbed its

flame. He proposed to light this, and the thought occurred that some

day, when this business came out, he would ask Addie to give it to

him--when he went back to school. Surely the labourer was worthy of

some sort of hire, and that lantern would add extraordinary joy to "the

cave" in dull winter days to come.

Thinking all these matters over, Hughie achieved a noiseless passage

through the saloon into the store pantry. He reasoned that the girl was

more likely to be in the fore-cabin--as a more remote hiding place; at

the same time she might easily be asleep on one of the saloon bunks;

these formed cushioned seats in the day-time, and, when the lids were

lifted, hammocks within, for which the cushions were used. She could

not know about that, so she would lie down on the outside, and it made

him tingle to realize that she might be within a few inches of him. He

reached the pantry, amidships, without hearing or seeing anything, and

there sat down again, his back against the partition, to listen and

locate her whereabouts if possible before he betrayed himself by

lighting the lantern.

The silence was profound; he could hear the water rippling along the

hull underneath. Then he thought it might be wise to creep through into

the fore-cabin; to that end he felt along the shelf for the admired

lantern, could not find it, and realized that Adrian might have moved

it; he could not find the matches either. It was tiresome, for he began

to want light, and time was getting on without tangible results. Then

the faint greyness along one side of the raised fore-hatch reminded him

that he could mount the steps of the little ladder, push the hatch

aside, and see better, without much trouble. It was still dark outside,

but that was nothing to the profounder dark inside, where the only means

of seeing at all was through the thick ground glass, double, along the

top of the saloon above deck.

He went through into the fore-cabin, found the steps, mounted softly,

and pushed the heavy hatch by inches from the deep rim over which it

fitted. He had to put out all his strength, but he made very little

sound.

*CHAPTER XVI*

*A Duel before Dawn*

When Hughie had shoved the hatch far enough aside to allow his head and

shoulders to pass, he went up one step higher and looked out. It was

lighter. He could distinguish things on the deck for what they were,

and see the water. He had hardly realized that, when he also realized

something else.

A figure was standing on the counter holding to the little mizzen-mast,

and pulling in the dinghy.

There was not a doubt of it. There she was. She must have been in the

saloon when he passed in the dark. She had bided her time, slipped out

and up the companion while he was shifting the hatch.

Hughie was exasperated; at the same time he generously admired her

quickness of resource. She must not be allowed to succeed all the same.

He squeezed up through the opening, got his woolly sweater caught on the

big hook that clinched the fastening outside, released himself, losing

valuable seconds, was on his feet and speeding along the deck in a few

more--just too late!

He saw the slim dark figure descend into the dinghy with a reckless

spring, and the boat drifted away as he reached the counter. It was an

odd, shadowy drama, played out in the thick haze of dawn from which the

night darkness was gradually peeling.

"Come back!" ordered Hughie with decision.

The girl was putting the sculls into the rowlocks quite deliberately;

she knew she was safe, or, let it more truly be said, thought she was

safe. The boat was rocking softly on a smooth heave, and going

shorewards all the time.

The girl appeared to be surprised at Hughie, for she fingered the sculls

in an uncertain manner while she gazed back at the small active figure

poised on _Messenger's_ graceful stern.

"You will stay there now," she said, with an emphasis on the last word.

She spoke rather low, but there was a triumphant ring in the tone.

"Why?" asked Hughie, watching her, and rather attracted by her voice,

because of the measured way of speaking.

"Because I shall not fetch you."

"How unkind!" said Hughie drily.

The girl in the dinghy did not quite like his tone. She expected a

complete surrender and an anxious appeal. She thought she heard a very

low chuckle, which was odd.

"You have no right to follow me," she said, playing with the oars; "it

is very ill manners."

"What about you trespassing?" retorted Hughie. "I suppose you know I

can give you in charge. You may have stolen any amount."

"How dare you!" this fiercely.

"Stealing off yachts is awfully common, you know," went on Hughie;

"that's why people keep them locked. We don't lock up the _Messenger_,

because Bell Bay people are honest--I mean they always have been up till

now."

The girl appeared not to hear; she was looking over her shoulder towards

the shore to which she was drifting. Her mind was turning over rapidly

what course to adopt. Would it be wiser to take this child off and make

friends with him, or to go home and leave the affair to chance? The

latter impulse prevailed, solely because she was angry at being stopped

in her intention, and the desire to vent her spite was very strong. She

would leave him just as he was for the others to find, and they could

think what they liked.

She began to row; then stopped, for Hughie spoke again.

"It's awfully silly of you to take the boat, because then everybody

knows," he commented. "Come back; what's the good of being an idiot?"

"You are a rude little child," said the Countess angrily. "Now I shall

punish you; you shall stay there."

Hughie laughed. Then, to her utter amazement, he made a clean dive from

the counter, hands over head, heels up, cutting the water with hardly a

splash, and presently came up only a couple of yards astern of the

dinghy. Then he shook the water out of his eyes and said blandly:

"I told you you were an idiot--now I think you are a full-sized one.

You'd much better have come back when I told you."

He turned over on his back, and splashed mocking heels at her, then

started off homeward; and when the Countess pulled the boat inshore he

was there first, and, running in, seized the painter.

"Get out, Madam," he requested, "and help pull the boat up; you are too

heavy for me to drag, and the tide's coming up pretty fast."

[Illustration: "GET OUT, MADAM."]

His tone was absolutely polite, at the same time the Countess had seldom

felt less happy. He was so small, and so good-tempered over it all!

She certainly felt rather like a "full-sized idiot"!

The dinghy was secured, Hughie fixing the anchor between two rocks.

The whole valley was wrapped in thick grey haze, but there was no light.

The east being behind the high Downs made morning late in Bell Bay.

The Countess looked on at Hughie's efforts; then she said, almost

against her will:

"You are very wet."

"Well, one is when one's been in the sea; you can't help it."

The girl coloured, but she pursued amicable tactics.

"I hope you will not catch cold."

"Oh, thanks," said Hughie, and he looked at her so expressively that she

could not fail to remember it was her fault that he was wet.

"You'd better come through our garden," he went on; "it's shorter. I

expect you know the way all right."

"I did not pass through your grounds," said the Countess quickly; "I

came along the road," she pointed in the direction of Crown Hill lodge.

"How do you get out of Woodrising without the people knowing?" asked

Hughie, as they climbed the beach among the rocks.

"You have no business to ask," said the Countess haughtily.

Hughie looked at her sideways.

"I think you are awfully funny; you'd amuse anybody," he declared

thoughtfully.

"Amuse--I!"

"Yes, there you go again. You do such ridiculous things, and when

people can't help smiling you cut up rough. You look like Pam on the

outside--except your face," went on Hughie critically; "but you aren't a

patch on Pam really--she's a sport."

"'Sport', how? Does she shoot then? I can shoot," said the Countess

sharply. It was plain she did not wish to be thought inferior to

Pamela.

"Can you, oh--that's all right. No, I meant Pam was awfully decent; she

plays the game always."

"You English think of games and nothing else," said the Countess

scornfully. "My father had a little gun made for me, and I could kill

when I was--oh--as small as you."

"I'm seven," said Hughie, "and a good bit of eight as well."

There was a pause as they passed through the gate on to the terrace

walk; the house was visible now, looking large and sleeping, with its

shuttered eyes.

"We'd better walk on the grass, because of gravel noises," advised

Hughie. "I shouldn't make it, but you do. And look here, it's no use

you trying to get on the yawl again, because she'll be locked up."

"Why?"

"I shall tell Addie to lock her. He'll see the dinghy has been shifted;

he's simply bound to."

Now this was obvious. The girl could not deny it, and an angry light

made her brown eyes look reddish as she turned a quick glance on the

boy. She checked speech though.

Hughie looked back at her curiously.

"What did you want to do?" he asked.

It appeared that she considered whether to answer or not, and then took

the resolution to say something anyway.

"I wanted to go somewhere."

"Where?"

"It does not matter. Anywhere. Salterne, or what is another

place--Peterock. I am sick and weary of this place--I wish to see a new

one. Surely there is no harm in that?"

She said this innocently enough, but in her eyes lay a something that

was not so honest as her words.

"Why don't you ask Sir Marmaduke?" asked Hughie. "He'd let you go to

Salterne or Peterock with Mrs. Chipman in the car. Why shouldn't he?"

"He would not; it is verboten (forbidden)," said the Countess sharply.

"It's what?" asked Hughie, frowning; he half recognized the sound of the

German word, for he had heard Miss Chance helping Christobel with German

holiday tasks.

"Nothing," answered the Countess quickly.

They had crossed in front of the sleeping windows, along the turf edge

of the lawn borders. Hughie avoided a straight crossing, because the

track on the grey wet spread of grass would be apparent to the whole

house. Along the narrow border he scrubbed it out as they went, walking

behind his charge for that purpose.

When they came to the front door end of the house, and the drive, he

told the girl to hurry, and hurried himself--always on the turf edge,

this time to avoid the noise of footsteps on the gravel.

"You see," he explained, "those open windows up above the front door are

Addie's and Crow's. We are only in view about two seconds, but you

never know."

The Countess asked why they couldn't go out by the kitchen garden door.

It seemed that she knew the geography of Bell House grounds.

"We can't get out. Old Hennery Doe takes the keys away when he goes,

and let's himself back when he comes in the morning at half-past six.

He doesn't hold with eight-hour days--he calls it 'silly muck'," said

Hughie, adding sagely, "so do I--what's the sense of stopping just

because it's eight hours, when the fruit is rotting and mice eat the

peas. Look at my father--his work is never done. Nobody can stop in

the Navy and the Army--how could they? Fancy if the battleships did

that sort of thing!" the scorn conveyed by Hughie's tone was

indescribable, and let it be said that on this point the Countess was

entirely in sympathy.

Hughie opened the gate for her, and, being bare-headed, made a little

gesture of salute as she passed through.

"I hope you will not catch cold," said the girl; her tone was

patronizing, and Hughie recognized it--a sentence culled from Mrs.

Jeeps' conversation came aptly to his mind.

"If you will be advised by me, you will remain in your own garden," said

he gravely; "and thank you for your good wishes."

This ended the interview. Hughie shut the gate with care, murmuring as

he did so: "We prefer your absence to your company," again Mrs.

Jeep--and then he started off running at top speed down the turn to the

stables and backyard, round the house and in at the garden door. That

he locked inside. Then he pulled off his soaked shoes and stockings on

the mat--rubbing stone-cold feet energetically to dry them well--sped

along the passage, up the back-stairs, and away down to his own room,

leaving no mark or faintest trace with his bare feet. Arrived "at

home", he dragged off the wet garments--knickers and woolly sweater, not

even a vest in addition--bundled the things up and put them with the

stockings under his bed--as the shoes were always wet, more or less,

they did not count; then he rubbed himself energetically with a rough

towel, assumed the striped pyjamas, dived into bed, and was asleep

within three minutes.

For Hughie the episode was successfully closed. For some others it had

just begun.

It was said that when the two entered the drive from the terrace walk,

Hughie hurried the pace in order to get his charge out of range of

Adrian's and Christobel's windows. There was just about a minute in

which that curve of the drive was in full view from the house. There

were surely a thousand chances to one that the pair would not be seen at

such an hour--not much after four o'clock in the morning. But as it

happened, Adrian had waked--perhaps some odd instinct of doings on board

the yawl had pricked him--the thousandth chance was against Hughie, and

Adrian got up at that instant to look at the weather and see what sort

of day was going to favour his project. His plan the night before had

been a seven o'clock start and breakfast on board. It would be heavenly

in the early morning, and nearly three hours tide to Salterne river

would be theirs. He wanted to be off at half-past six, but Mrs. Jeep was

firm about seven--she "didn't hold" with depriving people of their rest,

she said. So seven it was to be--and Adrian, on the alert at 4.20, saw

something that surprised him so immensely that he was nailed to the

floor, gazing.

The disappearing figures of Pamela and Hughie just rounding the curve of

the drive towards the big gates. Hughie bare-headed--otherwise as usual.

Pamela just as usual.

Dawn was piercing the "darkest hour", and the pair were fairly distinct

in the mist. Distinct enough to remove all doubt as to who they were.

Adrian gazed as they went out of sight, gazed at the empty drive; then

he leaned from his casement and listened. No sound but here and there a

faint "tweet" from a tentative bird, asking if it was time to get up.

Three or four minutes passed, then Adrian opened his door, hurried down

to Christobel's room and knocked--once--twice--no answer; she was

asleep; he went in.

"Is that you, Keziah?" murmured Crow--sleepily: "is it five?"

"I say, Crow," said Adrian in an energizing whisper, "wake up for any

sake. I've seen about the rummest thing you ever heard of."

"Oh," Christobel answered thickly, "what a pity."

"Pity! How do you mean?"

"Because I want to go to sleep--it's rather early, isn't it?"

"It's soon after four; but look here, Crow, this isn't a false alarm--or

a mare's nest--it's simply _the_ most amazing eye-opener."

"Oh, is it?" Christobel roused herself to look at her excited brother;

from long experience she felt sure that he would not be quiet till he

had got the news "off his chest". She raised herself a little on the

pillow and tried to be interested. "Go on," she said; "what is it?"

"Well, what do you say to Pam and Hughie walking up the drive to the

front gate."

"Oh, Addie--what rot! Four in the morning!"

"My good girl, I stared at them till my eyes nearly dropped on the

window-seat. I just happened to wake, and went to see what sort of a

day it seemed--the window was open--there they were."

"Why didn't you hear them on the gravel first?" asked Crow in an

unbelieving tone; she realized that here was another attack on Pam, only

this time Hughie was included. She refused to believe a word on the

spot; she made up her mind against this tale.

Adrian said the two walked on the grass-edge border--Pamela first,

Hughie following; they did not seem to be talking, they went fast.

"Why didn't you call?" asked Crow.

"I was simply knocked out of time. I just stared, and they were gone

round the turn. Then I came to you."

"Hum," Christobel sniffed sceptically; "how were they dressed?"

"I told you--I don't know, I'm sure--same as usual--the kid no hat. I

said so. Look here, Crow--what are we to do?" this in an urgent tone.

"Do? Oh, nothing; what could we do? Go to sleep again till we have to

get up."

"I must say, Crow, you are most awfully casual," said Adrian in an

offended voice. "The thing's about as strong as it can be, and you

won't move. Pamela has been behaving like a lunatic for weeks, and now

she is taking her walks abroad at four in the morning and dragging the

kid with her."

"Well, you see, Addie, I don't admit that Pam has been doing anything

different from ordinary," argued Crow in her sober, level way. "I don't

believe it, and you can't make me. As for _this_. I think the mist has

deceived you."

Adrian rose indignantly from his seat on the bed foot.

"Of course if you're going to----"

"Stop a minute, Addie. Here, give me my dressing-gown." She sat up and

put her arms in the sleeves, talking as she did so. "How long did you

say it was--you've only been here a few minutes--they were going _out_,

not coming in. Well, it's perfectly simple. I'll go and see; if they

were walking away up the drive ten minutes ago at the outside, they

can't be in bed now."

Christobel flitted away like a shadow, down the long corridor, round

into the cross passage at the end, and stopped outside Pamela's door.

She heard the sound of regular breathing in the stillness, and went in.

There was Pam, sound asleep. Christobel's experienced eye ran over the

neatly-folded garments on a chair, the blouse hung deftly over the bed

foot, sleeves inside out. The room was neat and in order.

"Absurd," muttered Crow with emphasis.

Pamela stirred, turned over, and started up on her elbow, rubbing her

eyes.

"What--what is it, Crow; am I late? Is it half-past six?"

"Oh no, half-past four. Don't worry--I just came to look out of your

window----" Crow suited action to the excuse, lamely made, for she was

not used to excuses.

"It's going to be fine, Pam; there's a mist----" she laughed softly with

a little sense of triumph, and slipped out of the room.

Pamela vaguely wondered, but it was obvious that her sister was "not

cross"--Christobel seldom was; she meant there was a very sympathetic

atmosphere, which was true.

Crow went on and peeped in at Hughie. A small heap in the bed, the top

of a sleek head, and absolute slumber, with the room just as usual.

She fled back down the passage and arrived in her own room rather

inclined to giggle.

"Both in bed, both sound asleep, not foxing, but simply _sound_. I woke

Pam; she was perfectly foggy, and wanted to know if it was time to get

ready. When I said 'no' she was practically asleep before I came away."

"I suppose they bolted back," said Adrian, though he was plainly

surprised.

"Bolted! My dear Addie! Pam's clothes were all as neat as a Chinese

puzzle, her shoes put together, her blouse hanging out to air! Hughie's

room was the same--you know how tidy those two are; they beat us hollow.

It's not a scrap of use reasoning that they could have done all that in

the time, because it isn't possible, especially as you say they were

going away, not coming in! After all, Addie, one must be reasonable."

Adrian was reasonable. He went off in silence. He saw the force of

what his sister said, but he had the evidence of his eyesight against

it. The whole thing was staggering. It was part of the strange and

complicated way that life had been behaving for weeks.

After that he slept fitfully, being worried, and at half-past six left

the house to get things ready on the yawl, leaving the girls dressing.

Pamela had come along the passage to Crow with a beaming face and her

lovely hair like a bronze shawl over her shoulders; she wanted

Christobel to plait her tail as Keziah was busy packing a basket. Adrian

saw his sister, and was bound to admit she looked like a guiltless

person who had slept soundly.

She said Hughie was asleep; as he was not going there was no need to

wake him.

Crow was dressed and putting one short pin in a nice little close hat,

when she heard Adrian come back. He came into her room, hardly waiting

for the answer to his knock, shut the door, and leaned his back against

it.

Christobel, instantly aware of something new, turned round; her brother

was breathing rather fast, and there were sparks in his hazel eyes.

"Something is up, Crow--no question."

"Why--what?"

"Oh, the dinghy has been used--she's full of gravel and

footmarks--sculls messed up--anchor shifted--painter wet and muddled

up--whole thing anyhow, and up in a new place, not where I put her."

Christobel exclaimed softly; Adrian went on:

"Someone's been on board the yawl. The fore-hatch is hauled off! there

are any amount of wet footmarks and gravel prints inside, on deck,

especially on the counter. The companion door is wide open. Besides

that, one of the bunks, the one you use, was all untidy--all the

cushions were on that side--and sort of messed up. Once before I had a

dim idea someone had been on board----"

"So had I," murmured Crow softly.

"You never said so."

"Well, I thought I was mistaken. It was so unlikely."

"It's obvious," said Adrian drily, "that very unlikely things are the

order of the day. In fact, it's just as well not to say 'all things are

possible'. Also there's no use in pretending Penberthy or Fraser would

do it, because it's out of their line altogether. Somebody has been on

board who doesn't understand boats--I mean, that's my impression."

"Then it can't be Pam," interrupted Christobel hastily

Adrian saw the argument in her mind.

"Don't ask me--don't say 'can't be', anyway. I feel inclined to say

'I'm mad, you're mad, we're all mad' like the cat in Alice. Anyway,

it'll take me an hour to clean up."

"Oh, Addie, what about Salterne?"

"Never mind, we'll go to Peterock instead; tide's A1 for Peterock after

nine o'clock."

*CHAPTER XVII*

*In which Amazing Things Happen*

The only thing confided to the general public about this surprising

development was that Adrian considered the allowance of tide all too

short for reaching Salterne, which was true, and had decided therefore

to make a day at Peterock. For the latter place everything was

convenient, the out-going tide would begin to ebb soon after nine

o'clock, and turn between three and four in the afternoon; could

anything be better?

"I wonder you didn't settle on that in the first place," said Mrs.

Romilly, a most reasonable remark. She did not know that Adrian

cherished a secret hope to anchor out all night again in Salterne river,

whereas Peterock was not the kind of harbour for such pleasures. It was

not a harbour at all, in fact, but a lovely watering-place with a pier;

within the pier was a makeshift mooring-ground, choked up with various

craft. No born sailor would go to Peterock for enjoyment. However,

these matters were not within Mrs. Romilly's knowledge, and Peterock

would do quite well for hair-cutting.

On finding the start was not immediate Mrs. Romilly made out a list of

commissions, and Christobel was too busy hearing about these things to

have any more time for the mystery. When she and Pamela went off there

was a serene atmosphere.

"Doesn't the dinghy look clean," exclaimed Pamela in warm admiration.

"Addie, you've scrubbed the whole thing. She's lovely!"

Adrian, who was rowing, looked at his sister quickly. The sincerity of

her face was unquestionable.

Thus the mystery grew, but Adrian was not ruffled as he had been in the

morning. Then, Crow had him at a disadvantage; he could not prove

anything; he was forced to feel even foolish in the face of the evidence

Christobel brought about the peaceful slumber of the supposed culprits.

Now it was different. He was justified by his startling discoveries,

and good temper was the result.

Christobel looked round as they boarded the yawl, but saw no signs of

disorder. All was neat as usual. She and Pamela packed the food into

the pantry shelf and set about helping to get the sails up.

Poor Pam was very happy. She felt freer than she had done for a long

time. Nothing could happen out here. The sea was glorious, and Crow was

always the same to her; nothing could come between them, she thought.

The breeze was off shore--what is called a "soldier's wind", which means

that it serves without tacking. The tide was strong, the sea, with such

a breeze, of course was smooth; it was all as perfect as possible.

"The Floweret could have come to-day without being sick," said Pamela,

gazing over the shimmering waste with half-shut eyes; "what a pity

Midget is left behind."

"He looked rather tired," said Crow from her place at the tiller.

"Did he; I wonder why. He slept sound enough; he never woke till Keziah

called him, and then he went to sleep again," said Pam.

Christobel smiled. This was exactly what she had felt sure of, and

there was no effort at all in her sister's way of speaking.

The start was excellent, the sailing was perfect; "dull care" seemed to

have been left behind in Bell Bay--but one never knows!

Lunch being planned for rather an early hour, the two girls went down to

get things in order about twelve o'clock. Adrian took the tiller, and,

steering with his eyes half shut, whistled softly to himself.

Christobel began setting the swing table in the saloon--the plan was to

lay-to upon the wind and have a proper lunch, as there was time;

Peterock cliffs were already in sight, and they would be moving towards

their destination all the while on the drift of the tide.

Pamela went through to light the stove--hot water would be wanted for

washing up, which was never left indefinitely. She had just put the

kettle on when she heard Christobel say something, and called out.

"What's that, Crow?"

"How _funny_!"

"What's funny?" Pamela set a saucepan close to the kettle--with a view

to egg-boiling--and then swooped through the low door full of curiosity.

"What's funny?" she asked again.

Crow was sitting on the bunk seat which was generally called hers,

holding something in her hand--a handkerchief. Not one of Adrian's

"tablecloths", nor one of the girls' strong linen hem-stitched articles

with the name letter in the corner. It was small and fine and

lace-edged. Crow began turning it round slowly through her fingers,

looking for some mark.

A spasm passed through Pam's mind. She was beginning to be accustomed

to that sudden sick shock, that meant "danger ahead", but it was none

the less unpleasant.

Christobel came to a corner, and stayed.

"Goodness!" she murmured. "I _say_, Pam, look here!"

Pamela had no need to "look here", she guessed.

"How _extraordinary_!" went on Crow with emphasis; "the same letters

that were on the safety-pin brooch--and a tiny little coronet. It's

awfully pretty, but--who on earth!"

She looked up at Pamela; their eyes met, and Christobel was acutely

conscious that Pam knew something. She flushed scarlet; then the colour

fled and left her very pale; her clear eyes shifted from Crow's gaze,

and in their depths was an uneasy, deprecating shadow.

"Do you know anything about this?" asked Christobel.

"About the handkerchief, no. Oh no, I don't. How _could_ it come

here?"

It was perfectly true that she had no idea how the handkerchief came

there, but it was not the sort of truth that was natural to Pamela

Romilly, and as she said the horrid words she felt sick with herself.

In a lightning moment she resolved to go to the Countess and tell her

that she intended to state the whole position to Christobel--she would

do it; she would warn the girl and have it all above-board.

Silence fell like a stone between the sisters. Christobel realized that

Pamela _had_ some secret; Pamela saw that she did.

Slowly the elder girl folded up the handkerchief and put it in her skirt

pocket.

"What shall you do--about it?" asked Pamela nervously.

"I shall give it to Mother, I suppose. When one considers that the

letters and the coronet are the same--well----"

Her tone was cold--she was hurt because Pam would not speak.

A sudden strange inspiration came to Pamela in that desperate moment.

Desperate, because Crow had backed her up and fought her battle right

through--she could not bear this last misunderstanding.

"Crow," she said, leaning forward; her voice shook a little, and her

eyes looked suspiciously limpid--"Crow--do you mind my saying

something--about it?"

"Why should I?"

"Don't say anything to Mother, yet. Take it to Miss Anne."

"_Miss Anne_--Little Pilgrim?" Christobel checked her work, and gazed

back startled. "Why?"

"I can't tell you why--but do. I am sure it would be the best thing to

do."

The elder girl considered this, not with much sympathy it seemed; then

she said:

"Oh well, perhaps. I don't know. Anyway, we may as well put lunch;

Addie is awfully hungry."

So it passed, with a very heavy cloud left behind to darken the clear

holiday sky!

Lunch was eaten and greatly enjoyed by Adrian. The two girls using a

self-control such as only girls know how to call up when necessary,

Addie saw no difference in either--but they saw it--in each other.

Then came the arrival at Peterock, the smart picking up of moorings, the

convenient man doing nothing in a large clinker-built boat close by,

with a pipe between his teeth, willing for a consideration to "oblige"

and give advice.

Then the three went ashore with the afternoon before them, and to make

it all more complete they decided to have tea at a gay and joyous

tea-shop on the biggest esplanade, and start for home about five-thirty

or six; even so with such a wind and the splendid flow-tide they would

have ample time. Adrian had his hair cut, while the girls--more or less

constrained--looked into shop windows. When they met again Christobel

said she did not like the idea of waiting so long in the town, "suppose

the wind dropped"--it was lighter. Adrian was disappointed, but he

realized that they were not allowing themselves much time for possible

accidents.

"Let's get off at four--about--and have tea on board," said Crow. As a

matter of fact the "snap" in the day had gone out for her since that odd

conversation with Pamela.

"_Tell_ you what we'll do," cried Adrian suddenly, as a new move

occurred. He loved new moves. "We'll get off about four; we'll sail

down to the cove this side Bell Ridge--you know Champles Creek. We'll

drop anchor there and have tea on shore. We shall be home then

practically, as we've only got Bell Ridge between us and the bay, and

can walk over if the worst comes to the worst."

"Why should there be any 'worst'?" asked Crow, not quite convinced.

"No reason, but one ought to have a bolt hole--always. All wild animals

do, and their instincts are--hullo, there's old Timothy Batt--Peterock

day, I suppose."

Timothy Batt's "van" was drawn up at the curb, bulging with parcels of

all shapes. He sat under the canvas hood, while people in shops came

out and handed him more things. He was very well known.

As the Romilly trio came up he leaned out and made a gesture of summons

to Pamela, who stepped forward to meet it.

Timothy explained that her bicycle was ready, "if so be" as she would be

content to risk a probable collapse of the tyre at an early date.

"Them at the works," explained Mr. Batt, "can't make no job of it. A

new tyre is what 'e wants--they don't take no 'sponsibilities."

"They've been such an age over it already," said Pamela, annoyed,

"weeks--I must ask about the tyre--I wish I'd known, Timothy."

"Well, missie, 'twasn't for want o' me tellin' of you. 'Tis a matter of

two weeks or more--us coming up along Folly Ho Road--pretty near dark it

were, and that I marked because I says to the missus 'twas a lone place

for you that hour. I called out, and stopped be roadside right enough

to told you what they says down works. 'Thank 'e', says you--nobbut

that, and on you goes. Bein' as I was home goin' and I didn't stop.

There 'twas----"

"Oh," said Pamela uncertainly. "Oh, I see----" She moved on a step,

then she turned back to the cart and told Timothy she would write to the

works, "or Mother would".

Timothy Batt informed the missus that evening that "Miss Pamela looked

'pined'," and "she'd a lost way with her--happen she's growed too tall

to be hearty," said the carrier.

Pamela certainly felt both "pined" and "lost" as she walked on with the

others. She had no doubt whatever that this was another case of her

"double", and glancing sideways at Adrian, as he walked along balancing

neatly on the curb, saw the look on his face that she had begun to know

now. Crow remained perfectly stolid, changing the subject at once to

something far removed from bicycles and Timothy Batt.

In old days, both would have said to her at once, "What were you doing

on the Folly Ho Road at that time?" Now, nobody spoke, and to poor

Pamela it was a sort of brand proclaiming her outlawed from the family

confidence.

On the top of the handkerchief affair it was rather shattering, and she

felt a lump rise in her throat. However, she called up her resolution

to hearten herself, swallowed the pain, and tried to take it all

philosophically. After all, it would be explained presently, and in the

meantime she was doing what she thought right by the girl who had asked

for her silence.

Sails do not always turn out "according to plan", but this one did--as

far as getting to the creek below Champles Farm was concerned. It was

the loveliest place, though hardly worthy to be called a creek when it

came to an anchorage. On such a day, with an off-shore wind, the place

was perfection. And once more the spirits of the three recovered the

usual level. Adrian dropped the anchor, and the white yawl lay on the

smooth sea exactly like "a painted ship upon a painted ocean", while her

crew went ashore.

A stream came down through a glorious cleft in the rugged height. There

were trees and ferns, the former a bit stunted from sea-wind; but Bell

Ridge was a barrier on one side, and on the other, the coast-line

trending outward made a shield.

Two thermos flasks and a weighty basket went ashore with the crew in the

dinghy. It was some while after five then; but, as Adrian said the tide

would be in their favour till half-past nine, the feeling of ease was

delightful. No hurry. No bother about wind or tide. Home was just

round the point by sea, and perhaps a mile by land, as the crow flies.

More, of course, if climbing is allowed for.

Soon after six Adrian said he should bathe. Crow unearthed a magazine,

and Pamela said she would climb to the top and look at the view.

Everybody agreed that it "was all right", and became absorbed in their

different occupations. Time passed so swiftly that it had presently

reached the hour of half-past seven. Then Adrian, who had become busy

on the yawl in some unexpected direction, came ashore and said it was

time to be lifting anchor.

Christobel shut the magazine, wishing next month was due to-morrow, and

gazed at him with vague eyes.

"Wake up, old lady; we ought to be getting back. Where's that idiot

Pam?"

"Oh, isn't she on the shore?" said Christobel, stretching. "How heavenly

it looks!"

"Yes, I know, but it's about eight o'clock--or soon will be. We'd

better get things on board; I can come and take her off."

"Whistle--call," suggested Crow, getting up from her fern seat.

Adrian did his best, which was something to be proud of, in the noise

line. Christobel had to tell him to stop; she said the lighthouse at

Ramsworthy would send the boat up, thinking it was a ship in distress.

They both stood on the edge of the rippled sea, looking up at the cliff

and the wooded gully that cut it from top to the rocky base.

"_There_!" exclaimed Crow.

"Pam--e--la, _hullo--o_!" Adrian's strong voice woke echoes that called

and called again.

Clear of the bushes, on the summit stood the person they wanted, looking

down at them apparently, but never a word said she, nor did she make

sign or gesture. She just stared.

Christobel waved her handkerchief, waved her hat, joined in Adrian's

shout:

"Go--_ing_!"

Anyone could have heard much farther off than the cliff top. True, it

was high, but the scene was so still, the waves but a ripple, and the

wind a breath.

"She's mad," announced Adrian; "she's raving, Crow. I told you she was.

If she isn't coming, why can't she answer? I must say this positively

passes--well, never mind--get in--we'll go. If she comes down I'll

fetch her off, but I shall certainly tell her what I think. Otherwise

she can walk home."

"I don't understand," said Crow.

"Of course you don't. People are not expected to understand lunatics."

Adrian said that and a few more things more pointed than flattering on

the way out to the yawl.

Meanwhile Pamela sat down on the edge of the cliff and watched them with

apparent interest.

By that time the light was beginning to turn into shadow.

"I suppose it couldn't be anyone else!" ventured Christobel, twisting

round in the stern seat to look up at the motionless watcher.

"Anyone else! My good girl, ask your own senses! Look at her hair!

Look at everything! Besides, where is Pamela? Didn't we see her go up

to that very place?"

"Addie, don't you think I'd better go back, and up to her and see if

anything is wrong?"

"How could there be anything wrong? She looks perfectly healthy--there,

she's going away. Well, of all the blazing bits of cheek----"

It was true. Pamela got up, stood clear against a bit of bare ground so

that they saw her figure distinctly; then she turned and walked away,

disappearing on the instant from view.

Adrian gave a snort--it was nothing less--and boarded the yawl in

silence.

The voyage home from the creek and the finish up took perhaps half an

hour. Adrian left nothing to chance that night: he locked the companion

door, he fastened the fore-hatch.

"You'll have to put up with stinks, Crow," he said bitterly, being most

horribly cross; "with the whole of Bell Bay one seething mass of

lunatics one has to take precautions."

Crow said nothing. She saw it must be so, also she was very much

puzzled; there was the handkerchief of course, in addition, from her

point of view; Addie knew nothing about that. However, amazements were

not yet a thing of the past. When they two got in supper was just

beginning--everybody was collected round a cosy, well-filled table,

everybody, and--Pamela, who was cutting bread. She looked hot and rather

tired.

"We're just about equal," she said. "I was so sorry to be late."

"_Late_!" came from the two elders in voices of amazed indignation.

"You were just off. I never saw anything so lovely as _Messenger_, just

leaning over, and spinning along, with the dinghy streaming behind. It

was no good then, of course, so I just went back through the gorse ridge

and came down the usual way."

"Do you mean to say we were sailing when you first saw us, Pam?" said

Christobel, in a shocked voice.

"Sailing, yes--streaking along awfully fast. Have some bread, Addie?"

"But, my dear girl, we were on the shore when we first saw you,"

persisted Christobel. "We called and shouted till we were afraid of

attracting public attention and being had up for nuisances."

"Did you see Pam then, dear?" asked Mrs. Romilly.

"_See_ her, of course, Mummy, but she wouldn't answer. We called--we

waved--we were on shore waiting by the dinghy, wondering why on earth

she was so late. Then we saw her come to the cliff edge and look down

at us. Addie made an awful noise, but she never answered. She just

seemed to be staring straight at us. At last we couldn't wait any

longer and we put off to the yawl. She watched us reach the yawl and

then she turned away and went off. That's what _we_ saw."

"How _very_ odd," said Mrs. Romilly uncertainly. "Tell them just what

happened to you, darling."

"I went up the cliff to the top," Pamela answered, speaking rather

quickly, "then I thought I'd just go to Champles and fetch a few eggs,

as it was easy to carry them by the boat. And coming away from Champles

I went round above the church, because it was so lovely--and there was a

most awful bother going on--Crow, you know where Mr. Badger has all

those sheep penned, and the field where the mare and the foal are in

with those calves. Well, _all_ the sheep were out--hundreds--the whole

place was covered, the mare had got into the cornfield where the young

corn is just coming up green--and the calves had gone. I started to get

the mare out, it took ages; then I saw the calves had gone into the

field that's nearly hay. It was particularly trying for Mr. Badger,

because I knew he would be at Salterne market to-day and not back.

Everyone else was gone home, of course. I got the mare back, and the

calves, and some of the sheep. It took ages and ages; when I got to the

cliff edge there was _Messenger_ sailing away. Certainly I didn't blame

Addie for a second. I only went to look on the off-chance of her being

still in the creek--it was very late."

Adrian made no remark from first to last. He hardly appeared to listen,

but ate his supper in absorbed silence. Frankly, he did not believe a

word of the story, but he did not know what to think. How his sister

could dare to assert that they never saw her, and that the yawl was on

her way home, was past understanding.

Mrs. Romilly had come to the conclusion--from Adrian's manner and Pam's

nervousness--that there had been some tiff on board, and the separation

was due to disagreement. She changed the subject, and peace prevailed on

the surface.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*Mr. Badger calls at Bell House;

and Christobel at Fuchsia Cottage*

Hughie most tactfully refrained from saying one word to add to Pamela's

weariness that night. It was plain she was very tired--plain to her

mother, who, for that reason perhaps, was a little inclined to be biased

against the elder pair.

It was not kind to leave the child alone at Champles Creek, when by

their own story they had seen her and called to her.

"After all, one of you might have gone up to see what was the matter,

darling," she said to Crow later.

"But, Mother, _she_ says we'd started."

"I think she is saying it to shield you both; Pam is very generous,"

suggested Mrs. Romilly.

"I suppose you mean that either way _we_ are wrong," answered Crow, a

little wounded.

"Well, do you think it was quite kind to leave her all alone? After a

long tiring day? But never mind--a night's rest will put it right, and

certainly Pam bears no malice."

That was how the affair looked to Mrs. Romilly. Christobel said no

more. She was a wise, kind girl--moreover, she was becoming aware of

some strange mesh of misunderstanding that had entangled them all.

Pamela had had to bear the brunt of that horrible brooch affair--now

_she_ was accused of this!

The handkerchief was in her possession still, of course, and, as she

examined it that night, Pamela's odd suggestion came back to her with

new force. At any rate Miss Anne would bring another mind and

imagination to bear on these entanglements.

Hughie, then, waited till next day, when he conveyed a secret invitation

to Pamela to meet him in "the cave" at a certain hour for important

conversation. Pamela went, and, curled up happily behind the barricade

with her long legs doubled up under her, she heard the story of the

Countess' raid on the yawl and the way she had been circumvented.

"Now what did she want to do?" said Pamela thoughtfully, her head

against the big trunk.

"_I_ rather guess----" said Hughie.

"What?"

"She wants to escape from Bell Bay. If I was her," he went on, clasping

his ankles as he sat cross-legged--"if I was her, I should escape, but

in a more sensible way, of course."

"I see, escape to Salterne. I wonder if she has any money," considered

Pamela.

"Sure to--lots."

"I wonder," went on Pam, "if Addie found out things on board; he never

said a word to me."

"Of course he did. The dinghy was all filthy mess, and there must have

been a whole _field_ on the yawl! _I_ couldn't stop to clean up. There

was that girl, and besides, I was so wet."

"Midget, you haven't caught cold, have you?" asked Pamela anxiously.

"No. I say, Pam--because Addie found out the mess was why you didn't go

to Salterne, don't you see? It made things late--then you went to

Peterock. I guessed that was it."

Pamela saw also, in an instant. Then she told Hughie about the

handkerchief; he nodded gravely.

"Well, if Crow takes it to Miss Lasarge, perhaps _she'll_ go and tell

Sir Marmaduke. I wish they'd take that girl away--she spoils all our

fun." Hughie sighed, then he remarked, "I told her it's no use her

raiding the yawl any more--I said Addie would lock her up. I said I'd

tell him to, but he'll do it jolly well without me telling."

Pamela remained deep in thought as she reviewed this situation.

"I wonder what that girl will do next," she said at last, and sighed.

"Well, _I_ wish she'd put her head in a bag," remarked the Midget with

quite unexpected coarseness; "she doesn't seem to be any use."

Now if anybody is thinking that the trouble at Champles Farm began and

ended with poor Pamela's anxious efforts, "he is deceived by his own

vanity", as Mrs. Jeep would have said. The day was not ended before

that worthy woman sent in a message by Keziah to know whether she could

speak to mistress for a few moments. Mrs. Romilly departed to the

housekeeper's room, and presently left that comfortable sanctum more

confused in mind than ever.

It appeared that Mrs. Jeep considered it her duty to mention what "they"

were saying about Miss Pamela. It was "all over the village" that Miss

Pamela had removed the hurdle and had caused Mr. Badger's sheep to

wander like the Israelites in the desert: some having been found at

Peterock, one been run over on the main road to the station, and several

still lost. That Miss Pamela had opened the gates at both ends of Spill

land--the senseless name of the field in which the mare and the heifers

were pastured--and let the animals out.

"They will have it as Badger's mare is so bad with the colic that she

won't get over it. Green corn's shocking food for a horse--well, serve

her right, the greedy creature--but the heifers, five of them, have

trampled the field he'd laid by for hay something cruel. I'm repeating

what they say, ma'am--there may be an ounce of truth to a barrel of

lies--we know how they talk. But anyway, it's laid to Miss Pamela. In

my opinion, that Badger's trying to make a case for himself. He thinks

he knows where the money lays! I don't hold with that Badger, ma'am;

never did, he's too free with his gossip. What I say is, Miss Pamela

knows the rights of a field just as well as them Badgers. She was never

one for mischief--not from a child. It's silly nonsense, that's what it

is, ma'am, but I thought I'd tell you in case that feller comes round

making out a case for damage."

Mrs. Jeep stayed, breathless; she had been fighting the family battles

since the milk came from Paramore's in the morning. It was the milkman

that first brought the tale; followed shortly by the postman and the

baker. Hennery Doe had "known ove night", he admitted, but, as he

disapproved of gossip just as decidedly as of eight-hour days, the story

had remained with him.

"Oh dear, oh _dear_," said Mrs. Romilly, "it really is too absurd. Poor

little Pamela seems to be in the wars all round. What is the matter?

Why are people so hopelessly idiotic?"

Mrs. Jeep sympathized respectfully. She intended to uphold the family

whatever turn the matter took, though in her secret heart she thought it

not an impossible contingency that Pamela might have left a gate open.

"Unluckily she was there--in the evening," allowed Mrs. Romilly; "if

only I could say she was at home!"

There it was.

Mr. Badger first of all wrote a letter to Mrs. Romilly. This he followed

up by a visit, next morning, and poor Pamela was sent for to the

library. She was pale and worried; there was an anxious look in her

grey-blue eyes, for the situation was so entirely new to all her

experiences that she felt like a convict.

Mrs. Romilly said:

"Pam dear, tell Mr. Badger what you saw, and what you did."

Pamela told, in rather a breathless way, and one strong point in her

favour was her visit to Champles to fetch the eggs that were always

welcome at the Bell House. Mr. Badger admitted that she had reached

Champles before seven o'clock--about a quarter to seven in fact.

Badger's contention seemed to be that she had opened the gates before

that--soon after six, because witnesses had seen sheep wandering at

half-past six.

"I didn't go that way, Mr. Badger," said Pamela with decision; "I began

to climb up from the creek somewhere about six, and went straight to

Champles. I came _back_ round the farm and the field where the mare

was. No one was about, and I tried for an hour to get the animals

home--the mare couldn't have eaten a great deal; I got her out, but the

calves wouldn't go."

"I dunno," said Mr. Badger, with a twinkling eye fixed on the

cornice--_one_ on the cornice, that is, _one_ on Mrs. Romilly--"I dunno

as I can save that mare; she's a turrable loss. If she dies the foal's

sure to foller; he's full young. As for the hay, an' them sheep----"

Mr. Badger believed he had a strong case. He said he could bring

witnesses to swear that they saw Pamela about six o'clock going through

the Spill land. The witnesses were vague rumour, really, but supposed

to be people walking out from Peterock to Bell Ridge and back--these

people "had passed a remark" on the subject when the sheep were all over

the roads, and remembered a young lady in blue with a long tail of hair,

walking in the direction of Peterock.

"How could _I_ be going to Peterock, Mother? You _do_ see how

improbable it is, don't you?"

Mrs. Romilly was firmer than Mr. Badger had hoped. He had planned a

"walk over", and pictured himself returning home with a cheque for at

least twenty pounds in his pocket! The fact is that Mrs. Romilly was so

convinced of Pamela's truth herself that she refused to be shaken.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Badger," she said; "at the same time, if, as you allow,

people were walking out from Peterock to the ridge and back why should

not one of them have left your gate insecure? Strangers are careless,

we know. As for the young lady in blue with long hair whom they say

they saw on the spot--the story is not convincing. They had heard the

description of my daughter, and are shielding themselves behind it. I

don't think we need say any more."

Mr. Badger went, dismissed icily by Keziah, who upheld the honour of the

Bell House as first lieutenant to Mrs. Jeep; at the same time she

remarked, in privacy:

"I've no opinion of Badger, Mrs. Jeep, as you know, but it takes some

explaining to see why ever Mr. Adrian and Miss Pamela tell such

different tales. Mr. Adrian's ever so gruff, won't hardly speak to Miss

Pamela, nor Miss Christobel neither, so far as I can see. He _is_ put

out."

Keziah spoke truly, for Christobel could get no opinion from her brother

either way. He refused to discuss Badger, or his woes. When Christobel

said it was all a story--a fairy tale of gossip--didn't he think so?

Adrian said:

"My dear Crow, did we see Pamela, or did we not see Pamela! You know

what we did, and you know what she did? Well, what's the good of

talking."

It was conclusive enough to drive Crow into her own room and a

consultation with her own mind as to the best course. There was still

that suggestion of Pam's about Miss Lasarge. Crow sat in her wicker

armchair and gazed up the carriage drive, on which Adrian still declared

he had seen the younger pair at four o'clock in the morning. Madness--of

course, yet, what about that queer invasion of the yawl? The whole

thing was delirium of improbabilities; the more Christobel thought about

it, the simpler it seemed to go and ask Miss Anne for advice.

So, about four o'clock on the day of Mr. Badger's visit, Christobel

announced she was going for a walk, and "made tracks" for Fuchsia

Cottage. Miss Anne was at home; she usually was at that hour; and she

received the girl with pleasure visible in every line of her small pale

face.

"Now of course you'll have tea with me, Crow; do you know, I was just

beginning to pity myself for being all alone, and so you've saved me

from a contemptible state of mind. I'll tell Lizzie--and what about the

lawn?"

Christobel said it was rather windy; she did not want tea out of doors,

it was too public. That settled it, because Miss Lasarge understood.

Everything went as is usual until the middle of the meal, when outside

subjects of conversation had been exhausted; then Crow said:

"Little Pilgrim, I'm come really to ask you to help us----"

"_Us?_" questioned Miss Anne, undisturbed.

"Well, it affects us all, so I'd sooner say us. We are in a strange

kind of morass--I don't know what to call it. We've never had such a

horrible state of things in the family before; you know how happy we

are?"

"I know," agreed Miss Anne; "and so something has happened to spoil it!

Suppose you begin at the beginning and tell me. 'Trouble shared is

trouble spared', isn't it?"

"I'm trying to remember when this trouble actually started," said

Christobel, leaning her head back on the cushion, and gazing at the

flowers on the table with unseeing eyes.

"It was about the time Mollie went. The first we knew of it was when

Pam saved little Ensor. She said, and they said, that she did it

alone--you remember. Adrian said it was impossible. Some days

afterwards he went to look at the place, and he found a most lovely

diamond brooch with two 'A's' for initials and a coronet over them----"

Miss Anne stirred in her chair. Crow paused.

"Go on dear," said Miss Anne.

Crow went on, she told the whole story of the brooch, with scrupulous

accuracy, adding one after the other the appearances of Pamela in places

where she should not have been at such hours. She went on, without

interruption, through the very strange story of Adrian's vision at four

in the morning, and the even stranger relation of the condition in which

the yawl and the dinghy were found. Finally there was the discovery of

the handkerchief on board the yawl, and _this_ latest affair of the

picnic at Champles Creek and Pamela's amazing behaviour, followed so

quickly by Badger's accusation.

Crow was very deliberate; she did not forget the episode of Timothy Batt

even, bringing the whole relation up to the present moment, as it were.

Then she ceased to speak.

Miss Anne was leaning her cheek on her hand, and her elbow on the arm of

the chair; she did not look at Christobel, but very intently out at the

lawn and flowers.

"What do _you_ think, Crow?" she presently asked. "Have you any

interpretation of your own?"

Christobel shook her head rather despondently; then she said:

"Anyway, I'm absolutely sure Pamela hasn't done anything dishonourable.

I don't understand what's happening, but I do know Pam, and I've

sometimes thought she might be aiming at some--well--some rather cranky

sort of noble deed----" Crow flushed and looked at her companion in a

deprecating manner. "She's simply wild about the Girl Guide business;

she's only waiting till she gets to school to be one. She reads it up,

and soaks it in, and she's awfully set on doing a good deed every day,

and helping people whatever it costs. Don't you see how it might lead

to--to things, perhaps? One can't tell how, exactly."

"She might be shielding somebody?" suggested Miss Lasarge.

"Yes; if there was anybody to shield. Besides," added Christobel in a

more matter-of-fact tone, "a lot of it is sheer muddle--the Badger

business, I mean, _that's_ sinful nonsense."

Miss Anne laughed; the fierceness in Crow's way of saying "sinful

nonsense" pleased her very much.

After that they talked it all over quietly, and the upshot was that one

thing especially seemed to puzzle Miss Lasarge, namely the surprising

vision Adrian saw at four o'clock in the morning.

"He could hardly have been mistaken in Hughie," she said.

"Or in Pam," added Crow.

To that Miss Anne made no reply.

When Christobel had taken her leave, greatly comforted, though nothing

had happened so far to lift the burden, Miss Lasarge looked at the

clock; it was half-past five. She hesitated, then made up her mind--and

a very firm mind too--because though Miss Anne was small and pale she

had a great soul in that small body, and she realized that she must help

innocent folk who were suffering through no fault of their own.

She put on a grey cloak and little close bonnet with a grey veil, and

slipped across the road to Woodrising gates like a grey shadow. It was

a cloudy day, and the very young new moon was "lying on her back", as

country folk say, which is a sign of tiresome weather. Miss Anne,

looking up, saw the silver sickle, pale and slim, for the first time.

Mrs. Trewby opened the gate, sighing; she was more bilious than usual by

reason of Mrs. Chipman's company, and a large housekeeping allowance.

Mrs. Chipman liked what she called "a good table", meaning, of course,

the things on it, not the table. Therefore, in doing her best to keep

Mrs. Chipman in countenance, Mrs. Trewby had upset herself for weeks,

probably months. It was a pity, because it made her very unhappy and

darkened her life.

"I wish to see the Countess, Mrs. Trewby," said Miss Anne.

"Well, miss, I dunno'----"

"It's very important," continued Miss Anne, quietly passing inside; "I

will answer to Sir Marmaduke."

When Miss Lasarge spoke in that voice she was always obeyed, and so she

presently found herself within the hall, and Mrs. Chipman discussing the

matter with many creakings of the tight bodice.

"I assure you, Miss Lasarge, that I have agitated in vain," cried Mrs.

Chipman; "coercion has been attempted in vain; the temperament of the

Countess is opposed to isolation, therefore----"

"I am afraid we cannot discuss that, Mrs. Chipman; the point is that Sir

Marmaduke left orders which must be carried out. Now, if you please, I

wish to see the Countess."

Mrs. Chipman was for the time suppressed--like the guinea-pigs in _Alice

in Wonderland_--she was rather like a guinea-pig when you come to think

of it. She ushered Miss Lasarge into the drawing-room where Pamela had

seen the Countess, but nobody was there, and Miss Anne detected in a

moment that Mrs. Chipman really was not sure whether she could produce

her very self-willed charge. It was a matter of luck!

In that moment they both saw the girl in question going swiftly across

the lawn towards a shrubbery lower down. Miss Anne did not hesitate; she

opened the window--which was of the "French" kind--passed out quickly,

and called.

The girl stopped, and stood looking to see who had summoned her; saw

Miss Lasarge and remained, hesitating. Had it been Mrs. Chipman she

would have walked away, that was obvious.

Miss Anne went over the grass towards her.

"I want to have a little talk with you, Countess," she said, without the

least asperity. "Won't you come back and entertain me?"

They came back together, into the drawing-room, and Miss Anne shut the

window, because she preferred to keep the conversation private.

She did not find this task at all easy, chiefly because the girl's

attitude--in every sense--was so antagonistic.

Sir Marmaduke Shard had given her and Major Fraser a sort of partnership

as watch-dogs over this girl--chiefly because one was a first-class

hospital nurse, and the other a doctor--yet they had no actual

authority, only moral authority. He wanted someone on the spot to

oversee Mrs. Chipman, and be ready supposing her charge should be ill.

He fancied that he had arranged for every contingency in a most complete

manner, but being a man as well as a great lawyer, he had of course

missed entirely the main points--the practical points--with results

already shown.

Miss Anne and Major Fraser both had a reason for helping; this came to

light afterwards; but even so they would probably have declined all

association with the business had they realized how perfectly untamable

Sir Marmaduke's ward was going to be.

Things had come to a head, though, and Miss Lasarge felt herself on firm

ground when she began to talk. She told the girl that she knew

everything--including the brooch business and the wanderings over the

countryside.

The Countess watched her shrewdly--to see how much she really did

know--and quickly realized that nothing was said about the night visit

to the yawl. Miss Anne did not mention it, because she could not make

up her mind about that. How could little Hughie be connected with this

girl in such an excursion? It was not possible to understand it, and

the Countess decided she did not know, and triumphed.

She excused herself about the brooch, saying it was her own; she had

dropped it on the cliffs.

"When you met Pamela Romilly?" suggested Miss Anne.

"Was there any wickedness in helping to carry the farm boy?" said the

Countess.

"Of course not, my dear; but you should not have been out. You promised

Sir Marmaduke in my hearing that you would keep to these grounds for the

short time you are staying--you break your word, and, if I am not

mistaken, you induced Pamela Romilly to keep your secret, and so have

involved her in all sorts of grief and misunderstanding."

"She need not keep her promise," said the Countess, with a little smile.

"But she would, of course. And you knew she would, didn't you?"

The girl gave that little shrug with which she met objections she

despised, and, as Miss Anne looked at her handsome face and her arrogant

supercilious expression, she found herself wondering how, when, and

where it would ever be possible to teach this untaught soul a code of

honour.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*The Trick*

Miss Anne's visit at Woodrising lasted nearly an hour, which annoyed the

Countess extremely, but she made little way on the road she had hoped to

gain. She tried to awaken some sympathy for Pamela, but the girl

appeared to find amusement in Pam's trouble. Because she had been brave

over the cliff affair, Miss Anne hoped she felt for little Reuben, but

she was in no wise interested, the farm people were "common".

At the end of the hour Miss Lasarge realized that the chief hold she had

was in the fact that the Countess was afraid of Sir Marmaduke--of anyone

in power, perhaps. It was a weapon Miss Anne could not bear to use, but

she had to protect her beloved children at the Bell House.

"Well," she said, "then I'll say good night, and you will be wiser, my

child, if you do as Sir Marmaduke wishes. You are making a mistake in

acting as you do. I am obliged to say that I shall tell him if it does

not cease."

The Countess looked down at the little grey person who presumed to

interfere with her amusement. It did not occur to her that she could

not shield herself behind a lie. It would be quite easy to tell Sir

Marmaduke that the girl who ran about in the evenings was Pamela

Romilly. He would believe her, of course. She recalled with

satisfaction that Miss Ashington was sure she had been visited by

Pamela. There was nothing--nothing to prove in any single instance that

it had not been Pamela Romilly. Mrs. Chipman would be silent for her own

sake.

As the little grey lady stood watching her face she read the thought.

Perhaps the Countess did not try to conceal it; perhaps she was not so

well practised in deceit as to hide it all--after all, fourteen years is

not a long time. In either case Miss Anne saw it quite plainly, and she

said:

"You might deny all sorts of things, but you would have to explain to

Sir Marmaduke how you came to leave your handkerchief on his yacht--on

Tuesday night. It is a thing that cannot be denied."

The girl stiffened, and stood rigidly still.

Then she said suddenly.

"It is a lie--you invent it to frighten me."

"No," answered Miss Anne, looking at her with the clear grey gaze that

seemed the essence of truth, "it is quite true. My dear child, you know

it is true. There is your initial, and the little coronet--quite

unmistakable. Now good night again--be wise, and be good, and you will

be happy too. I tell you frankly that _I_ have your handkerchief, but I

shall not use any evidence against you unless you make me."

Seldom in her life had the grey lady felt so much pain as when she left

the Countess standing in the Woodrising drawing-room with that

expression of fear and anger together on her pretty face. Miss Anne had

been used to girls as friends always, and had started by treating this

girl in the same way as others. The Countess on her part started by

pretending friendliness, and cheated! That was the

difficulty--kindness, in her eyes, was weakness.

Miss Lasarge went home, and on the way made up her mind to write to Sir

Marmaduke if there was any further trouble, but she did not wish to

bother him needlessly, because she knew he was very busy at work on a

Government Commission. Also, it did seem rather absurd that several

women could not keep one girl of fourteen within bounds.

Left alone, the Countess sat down with some force and cried furious

tears. Then she took her hat off and threw it on the floor--flung her

gloves one way and her shoes another. Then she rang the bell violently,

ordered Mrs. Chipman to pick the things up--and marched upstairs in her

stockings with high held chin.

She would not go out--to-night--or to-morrow--perhaps not for one or two

more days, but _wait_. She had plenty of money; she would not be

trammelled by these common people--after all what could they do to her?

That was the point naturally--what they could do that mattered? She had

been in England a long time. Quite long enough to understand that

nobody would hurt her, whatever she did; but not long enough to

appreciate kindness at its true value--which was sad, in many ways.

Therefore she settled her own plan, in her own way, went to bed and

slept soundly.

At the Bell House life assumed something of the old peace. Nothing

happened in the Badger line--having cast his bolt, the wily master of

Champles Farm was not quite certain what to do next.

Christobel smiled on Pamela, who in her turn summoned up courage to ask

what she had done with that handkerchief.

"Gave it to the Little Pilgrim," said Crow.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing."

"Didn't she say one word? Didn't she know _anything_?" persisted poor

Pam, disappointed.

"She looked at the initial, and I don't think she was surprised. I

don't know why, but my feeling said she wasn't surprised. I told her

about the brooch and--and a few things I'd noticed," went on Crow,

turning a little pink under her sister's anxious gaze. "She nodded, and

listened--that was all; but one felt she'd do something--quietly,

without fuss! I don't know why one should always expect her to, but one

does."