Fair Fatality had a cold smile. Pamela could see her face by the light of the links each side of the theatre portals. It was very pale.
“Pray get in, sir,” she said; “the man knows his way.”
As they drove off Mr. Sheridan rubbed his hands and laughed again.
“To think that I should be sitting vis-à-vis to the fairest intrigue in all London, and actually be going to solve the mystery! Though, to be sure, ’tis no mystery to you, ma’am, I dare swear?”
He looked tentatively at Pamela through the gloom.
They were turning out of a by-street into the main thoroughfare, and Pamela, casting her glance out of the window, was startled, but scarcely surprised, to see that the Prince’s carriage was very closely following theirs.
“Why, Pamela, my girl,” said the milliner to herself, “little you thought when you set out that you’d perhaps be supping with Royalty! But there’s one thing clear. You’ve got to stand by this poor soul to-night.”
Mr. Sheridan did not seem to relish the idea of conversation with Miss Falcon’s companion. Pamela, who from the first had fancied that, though carrying his liquor with decorum, he was far from sober, was not sorry to see him fall into a doze. Whether on her side the actress were asleep or not she could not guess, but she never moved nor spoke. The drive was long, and Pamela had lost all her sense of district when the coach was pulled up at last. But Mr. Sheridan, waking with a start and looking eagerly about him, cried:
“Why, this is the King’s Road! I’ll be hanged if that’s not the lodge of Elm Park House.”
“This, sir,” said Miss Falcon, “is Mulberry House, my poor abode, to which you are——” she paused, and altered her phrase—“where I am this night privileged to receive you.”