Suddenly the former turned and came pelting back.
The men, who were walking ahead, did not observe her movement. Her elderly companion proceeded more leisurely.
Willoughby left the window and returned to the door.
As she arrived, he opened this readily.
“I think I’ve left my bag in one of the chambers. I fancy I put it down in the picture-gallery.”
Willoughby led her to the staircase and she passed up. He followed pleasedly, marking her as she went.
She was tall and slight, and moved with an easy grace. The slim, bare hand, resting upon the banisters, was small and firm and shapely. Its trim nails shone. Her straight back, the even poise of her head, her beautiful ankles, would have delighted a sculptor. Her plain tussore dress and pert little hat suited her perfectly. As for her white silk stockings . . .
At the top of the staircase my lady turned to the right.
“I know my way, you see,” she flashed over her shoulder.
Willoughby smiled.