“This is a very strong letter, sir,” said Portsmouth, with an inquiring look.
“Yes, very strong,” promptly acquiesced Nell; and she chuckled as she recalled that she had written it herself, taking near a fortnight in the composition. Her fingers ached at the memory.
“Where did you leave Rochet?” inquired the Duchess, almost incredulously.
“Leave Rochet?” thought Nell, aghast. “I knew she would ask me something like that.”
There was a moment’s awkwardness–Nell was on difficult ground. She feared lest she might make a misstep which would reveal her identity. The Duchess grew impatient. Finally, Nell mustered courage and made a bold play for it, as ever true to her brogue.
“Where did I leave Rochet?” she said, as if she had but then realized the Duchess’s meaning, then boldly answered: “In Cork.”
“In Cork!” cried Portsmouth, in blank surprise. “I thought his mission took him to Dublin.” She eyed the youth closely and wondered if he really knew the mission.
“Nay; Cork!” firmly repeated Nell; for she dared not retract, lest she awaken suspicion. “I am quite sure it was Cork I left him in.”
“Quite sure?” exclaimed the Duchess, her astonishment increasing with each confused reply.
“Well, you see, Duchess,” said Nell, “we had an adventure. It was dark; and we were more solicitous to know whither the way than whence.”