“No,” said Wilson, her eyes brightening. “You don’t say so, Miss Mather. Of all the brazen——”
“Sh—” said Doris.
But there was no more sleep for either of them that night. Bolt upright, side by side, they watched the dawn grow into sunrise and the sunrise into broad day. They saw no more of the motor-cycle man and Doris reassured herself that there was nothing to be feared now that the packet was— She started in affright. The packet at Betty Heathcote’s! Perhaps at this very moment lying innocently in Betty’s post-box or in the careless hands of some stupid Scotch gardener, or worse yet inviting curiosity on Betty’s desk or library table. Her heart sank within her as she realized that her brave plans might yet miscarry.
It was with a sense of joyous relief that the train pulled at last into Innerwick Station. When she got down she saw Betty Heathcote’s yellow brake, the four chestnuts restive in the keen moorland air, and looking very youthful and handsome in a brown coat which made the symphony complete, the lady herself, the wind in her cheeks and in her cheery greeting.
“Of course, Doris, you’re to be trusted to do something surprising. Oh, here’s Jack Sandys—you didn’t know, of course.”
The sight of these familiar faces gave Doris renewed confidence, and when from the box seat she glanced around in search of her pursuer he had disappeared.
Sandys clambered up behind them. Wilson got into the back seat with the grooms, the boxes went in between, and they were off.
“Constance was tired, Jack. At least she said she was. I really think that all she wanted was to disappoint you. Nothing like disappointment. It breeds aspiration. But,” she added mischievously, “I’m sure she’s dying to see you. Awf’ly sad—especially since it’s not quite forty-eight hours since you were waving a tearful good-by in Euston Station.”
“Did you get my package?” whispered Doris in her ear, at the first opportunity.
“What package? Oh, yes, the stockings. It was torn and awf’ly muddy. Higgins dropped it from the dog-cart on the way over and had to go back for it. Lucky he found it—in the middle of the road. What a silly thing to make such a mystery of. And the cigarette papers—you might be sure I’d have something to smoke at Kilmorack House. I can’t understand. You really could smoke here if you want to without so much secrecy about it.”