“Olivia! Olivia!” he called.
She drew back into the shadow and set her teeth; then, as he went in again, evidently to look for her in the house, she glided rapidly into the avenue, and went toward the lodge. She had almost reached it, was within touch of the big gates, when the figure of a woman passed through the open one and stood before her.
Olivia’s nerves were strained to their utmost tension, and she shrank back with a low cry of alarm.
The woman stretched out her hand pleadingly.
“Don’t, don’t, miss!” she said, in a suppressed whisper, “I’ve not come to hurt you!”
“Who are you? What do you want?” asked Olivia, trembling a little, but recovering her presence of mind, for it seemed to her that she had heard the voice before.
The woman came nearer, and the light of the lodge window falling on her face, Olivia saw that it was the gipsy who had told their fortunes at the picnic.
“You know me, you remember me, miss,” she said, still in a whisper, and with a kind of hurried earnestness.
“Yes,” said Olivia, breathing more freely, for there was a sad and weary expression in the woman’s face, which called for compassion rather than fear. “Yes, you are the gipsy. What do you want?”
“I want to see you, miss, to speak a few words,” replied Liz. “I’ve been watching for you, waiting for a chance to see you alone; but he’s always with you.”