"Philip, is your mother with you?" Rosemary shouted in response.
"Yes! We are just going in."
"Ask her to wait a moment then."
"What has happened?" Elza called.
"Nothing, darling," Rosemary replied. "Send the others in and wait for me, will you?" Then she turned to the gipsy, and said kindly: "Walk beside me, and don't try to run away; the gracious lord will not hurt you if you walk quietly beside me."
And so the three of them walked across the lawn toward the château, Rosemary in front, and beside her the gipsy, whose long thin hands almost swept the grass as he walked with bent knees and arched back, throwing from time to time anxious glances behind him. But Peter was lagging behind.
When they were dose to the château, they saw Elza coming down the veranda steps. Rosemary ordered the gipsy to wait, and ran to meet Elza; in a few words she told her what had occurred. Elza then came across the gravel path, and said to the gipsy: "I am the Countess Imrey. You may give me the letter!"
The man's back became more curved than ever; he nearly touched the ground with his forehead. In the darkness Rosemary seemed to sect his long, thin body, curling itself up almost into a ball.
"I was told," he murmured meekly, "to give the letter in the hands of the gracious Countess only when she was alone."
Instinctively Rosemary turned to look for Peter. To her surprise she saw him just above her, going up the veranda steps. He had his hands in the pockets of his trousers, and he was whistling a tune.