“Very good, my lord.”
“Put up the hood, Charles. The sun’s very hot for Miss Gilletson.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Nobody’ll see you if you get out a hundred yards from the door—and it’s really better than tramping the road on a day like this. Of course, if Beach Path were open——!” He shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly.
Fear of the Marchesa struggled in Miss Gilletson’s heart with the horror of the hot and tiring walk—with the seduction of the shady, softly rolling, speedy carriage.
“If I met Helena!” she whispered; and the whisper was an admission of reciprocal confidence.
“It’s the chance of that against the certainty of the tramp!”
“She didn’t come down to breakfast this morning——”
“Ah, didn’t she?” Lynborough made a note for his Intelligence Department.
“Perhaps she isn’t up yet! I—I think I’ll take the risk.”