"How I know I will keep to myself, but what I know—is this. There is the gate, half a mile beyond the factory, where by signal the train stops for sugar and passengers. At night, when one would travel that way, old Jaggerie shows a lamp—he will show it at ten o'clock, when the mail for the north goes by. The plan is this. Dom, with her luggage carried by a syce, will be there and meet the train. Her lover is in it—they go together to Cashmere."
"But he is in the Terai shooting," interrupted her listener.
"He is not there now. Dom's letters have recalled him to her. You go into her room and see if I do not speak truly. Then come back."
Verona entered her sister's apartment, immediately after her knock, and found her busily engaged in rolling up clothes into the smallest space, and stuffing them into a leather bag, over which she threw a cloak instantly—an instant too late. She looked hot and flushed.
"What is it?" she asked, peevishly; "what do you want? A paper? Goody me! what paper?"
"Truth."
"Then it is not here, so now," with a stamp of her foot, "you go; go, go, go. I am busy."
"Well?" enquired Mrs. Lopez, when Verona had returned.
"Yes, you are right. We must think of something?"
"You suppose you can stop her—the Red Cat—no, better let her go."