“I can't help that,” he declared, a little doggedly. “She's had a miserable time, I know. She was married to a scamp. I'm not quite sure that her father isn't as bad a one. Those things don't make any difference.”
“They wouldn't with you,” she said softly. “Tell me, did you say anything to her last night?”
“I did,” he replied. “I began when we were out alone together. She gave me no encouragement to speak of, but at any rate she knows.”
Lady Cynthia leaned a little forward in her place.
“Do you know where she is now?”
He was a little startled.
“Down at the cottage, I suppose. The butler told me that she never rose before midday.”
“Then for once the butler was mistaken,” his companion told him. “Margaret Hilditch left at six o'clock this morning. I saw her in travelling clothes get into the car and drive away.”
“She left the cottage this morning before us?” Francis repeated, amazed.
“I can assure you that she did,” Lady Cynthia insisted. “I never sleep, amongst my other peculiarities,” she went on bitterly, “and I was lying on a couch by the side of the open window when the car came for her. She stopped it at the bend of the avenue—so that it shouldn't wake us up, I suppose. I saw her get in and drive away.”