“Aye, and by the way, my Lord, ring the bell and send Pompey for that very little bird. She must not go unrewarded.”
“She?” repeated Mr. Stafford. His eyebrows went up. He was perhaps not altogether amazed to see Pamela Pounce walk into the room.
“Come here, child,” said my Lady, and picked from her bodice a pretty, sparkling brooch. “Wear this for my sake in remembrance of to-night. As for me,” her light voice deepened, “I shall never forget your good sense and courage. She guessed you were planning some mischief with your charming sister-in-law, Mr. Stafford, sir, and having to tie her bandboxes outside the door, she caught some whispers of your little game.”
“Oho!” said Mr. Stafford.
“I listened,” cried Pamela with flaming cheeks, “and I went straight to my Lord here and my Lord——”
Here my Lord himself took up the tale, his lazy, pleasant voice creaming forth in contrast to the excited tones of the young milliner.
“And faith, bad husband as I am—troth, sure it’s the worst in the world—there was but one thing for me to do, and that was to protect me wife. So I went to His Royal Highness and did a little bit of coaxing—not that he needed much. God bless him, isn’t he always ready to condescend to be entertained? And I got him to promise easy enough to come in to supper after his royal parents had gone to bed. And then I wrote a line to my Lady and asked her permission to bring the Prince, and by the same token I told her about your fine scheme of counterfeit. Sure, I knew my Lady could be trusted to deal with that.”
“Denis,” said Kitty. “There was an infamous note I sent you on pink paper. Have you got it about you?”
He gave her a grim look, inserted two fingers into his waistcoat pocket, and drew it forth.
“Give it back to me, my dear love.”