“Miss Wroat and Mrs. Peters,” he began, with his eyes fixed on the coin—“they—”
“Mrs. Peters? That is what the young companion calls herself? Go on.”
“Miss Wroat and Mrs. Peters,” repeated the boy, “they have gone to Heather Hills to stay a month—that’s where they’ve gone. Now give me my money.”
“In one moment. As soon as you tell me where is Heather Hills.”
“Scotland,” said the lad. “Inverness. I don’t know nothing more, only I know the boxes and trunks were labelled Inverness, for I looked at ’em. The money!”
Rufus paid it, and hurried away, proceeding to the Great Northern Railway station. When he reached it, the night express had gone!
CHAPTER XIII.
AN ACTIVE RESISTANCE.
Neva Wynde was not one to waste her strength in useless repining, nor to give way to weakness and tears at a time when she needed all her keenness of wit and vigor of body, in the contest begun by her enemies. She was a brave, resolute young girl, and she did not lose her bravery and resolution even after matters had been so singularly precipitated to a crisis, and she knew her enemies as they were. She retired into her own room, as we have said, and was locked in. As the bolt shot home and Neva comprehended that she was an actual prisoner, her cheeks flamed with her indignation at the indignity practised upon her, but she did not weep or moan.
She quietly laid aside her fur jacket and hat and went to her window, essaying to look out. The baying of the dogs in the yard below reached her ears, and she went back to her fire, smiling bitterly.
“I see no way of escape,” she murmured. “The night is cold, and I might die on the mountains in my wanderings, should I get out. I am in lonely Scottish wilds, but I am in the hands of Providence, and I will fear no evil. Surely Arthur will find me out. Craven Black may be keen-witted, but Arthur is keener. He will find me.”