A pause, then:
"It was sweet of you to say that," I said. "Thank you." But, as I spoke, I did not look at her. I dared not.
A clock chimed the three-quarters. A quarter to seven. Thank you. A moment later we were arranging our escape.
When retrieved, our impedimenta would consist of her parasol and dressing-bag, and my dressing-case. My stick and gloves were in the hall, and I decided to let them go. Her bag was in a fair bedroom—a little brass knocker upon the door—hard by the top of the staircase. She had heard them put my case in the room adjoining. Very well. She was to sit—loll, if she liked—in the arbour, where tea had been served, while I ventured indoors and secured the luggage. Once across the lawn, I was to drop it over the sunk fence close to the drive. Together we could then stroll towards the lodge gates. I should leave her half—way, come by the wood to the fence, take up our chattels, and join her again somewhere on the verge of the grounds close to the lodge gates. Then we could scramble over the oak palisade into the road.
As I strolled towards the dining-room, wheels crunched on the gravel-drive. I turned to see a wagonette swinging down the avenue.
There was a writing-table in the bedroom window, and before I crept out of the room I sat down and wrote a few lines:
"To THE HOUSEKEEPER—Lady Pan and I regret the unfortunate confusion for which a certain similarity of name and title has been responsible.
"(SIR PETER PAN.)
Then I took a five-pound note from my case and slipped it into the envelope. I addressed the latter, and put it with the two letters and the telegram on the dressing-table.
On my way indoors and upstairs I had encountered no one. Incidentally, I should not have minded if I had. But now it was a very different matter. Mentally and physically the luggage embarrassed me. My appearance proclaimed an exodus—suggested a flight. Of course, if I did meet a servant, I should try and bluff my way out; but—— There was no doubt about it this was one of the tighter places.