“Ah, I see! You collect eggs, eh? That’s it, is it?”
“Yes, and also I like to watch birds.”
Mr Philips smiled tolerantly. He wondered how old this slim boy was, and thought it a pity the young fellow should be so effeminate; but he was a country man himself, and dimly he could recall the bird-watching days of his youth. “Yes, yes, I understand! You went off on your own to try to catch a glimpse of this owl: well, I have done the same in my time! And so you were not with your good cousin when he reached the clearing in the wood?”
“No, but I met him on his return, and of course he told me what he had found.”
“I dare say, but hearsay, my boy, is not evidence,” said Mr Philips, nodding dismissal.
Pen made for the door, feeling that she had extricated herself from a difficult situation with aplomb. The landlord ran after her with a sealed letter. “If I was not forgetting! I beg pardon, sir, but a young person brought this for you not an hour ago. Leastways, it was for a young gentleman of the name of Wyndham. Would that be in mistake for yourself, sir?”
Pen took the letter, and looked at it with misgiving. “A young person?” she repeated.
“Well, sir, it was one of the servant-girls from Major Daubenay’s.”
“Oh!” said Pen. “Oh, very well! Thank you!”
She passed out into the village street, and after dubiously regarding the direction on the note, which was to—“Wyndham Esq.,” and written in a round schoolgirl’s hand, she broke the seal, and spread open the single sheet.