"Yes, but she is, sir. I saw her go down the path in the afternoon with her mackintosh on her arm. I think she went to meet her good gentleman."
Austin Ambrose started, and his face flushed.
If she had, and they had met before—well, before something that he hoped had happened—all his plans, all his deeply and skillfully laid plots would be smashed and pulverized.
He turned his back to the woman, that she might not see his face.
"I—I think she must be in the house still," he said, with a sudden hope; "she may have come back, you know."
"She may, but I don't think she could without my seeing her. Howsomever, it's easy to find out." And she lit a candle and went up the stairs, calling respectfully, "Mrs. Stanley, are you in, ma'am?" while Austin Ambrose listened intently.
In a minute or two she came down.
"No, sir, she's not in the house. I'm afraid the poor lady's in the storm; leastways, unless she's taken shelter."
Austin Ambrose caught up his hat.
"If she should come in before I return," he said, hurriedly, "ask her to wait till I see her and speak with her. Do you hear? Do not let her go. You understand?"