"For the present my father also begs you to take the keys of the abbey," added Isabel. "Here they are. He says he has explained everything in his letter. As for this guest-house, there are only two keys. We will give them to you when we go, on Thursday."
Antonio's heart leaped like a bird at her words about the abbey keys; but it sank like a stone as she said, "we go on Thursday." So violent was his agitation that, to cover it, he rose from his seat and advanced to the open drawer of the escritoire where the keys were lying. He dared not look at Isabel.
"If the chapel key is not here," she said, in an off-hand way, "you know where to find it."
She placed the bunch in his hand. There were about twenty keys, great and small, bright and dull, and they tinkled together pleasantly as Antonio carried them back to his place. But they sounded in his ears more like a far-heard knell than a merry chime.
"I suppose you must go now?" she inquired.
"My pet, my darling pet," expostulated Mrs. Baxter, looking daggers. "What on earth will Signor de Rocha think? He'll think you want to hunt him out of the house."
"So I do. There's a waterfall somewhere in the grounds. I want him, if he has time, to show me the way to it. A waterfall and stepping-stones. Perhaps, Mrs. Baxter, you will come with us."
"Stepping-stones!" gasped Mrs. Baxter. "Not if they were made of solid gold. Not if you paid me a million pounds. Why, you've quite forgotten, Isabel, darling, that if it hadn't been for stepping-stones, poor little Lady Margaret Barricott would be alive to-day!"
"Then you won't come? Senhor da Rocha, have you really the leisure to take me?"
"I have the leisure," answered Antonio formally. "And, if I had not, leisure should be made. Mrs. Baxter, I will send up my man to-morrow to assist you in the packing of your goods, and I will certainly attend you on Thursday. Meanwhile, I am your obedient servant."