At the last moment her courage failed her. She knew the conversation would have to do solely with the coming trials. She knew Inspector Egerton's style in dealing with Ambrose. She could not face it.
She sent down-stairs the time-honored excuse of young ladies and, tearing off her finery, flung herself, like Ambrose, on her bed.
She passed a worse night than he, for while the man accused fate, she had to accuse herself. Colina was nothing if not whole-hearted; coward was the gentlest of the names she called herself.
More than once she was on the point of rushing out of the house and, regardless of consequences, imploring Ambrose's forgiveness.
However, after midnight a way out of her coil suggested itself like a star shining out. She slept for a peaceful hour.
Long before dawn she arose and awakened her maid. This was Cora, a stolid Cree half-breed, doggedly devoted to her mistress and accustomed to receiving her impulsive orders like inscrutable commands from Heaven.
Upon being notified, therefore, that they were about to set off on a long journey overland instead of by the launch, she set to work to get ready without surprise or question.
Colina wrote the letter to Ambrose and another to her father. The latter was a little masterpiece of casualness, designed to prevent pursuit, if that were possible.
She knew that they dared not wait another day, before starting up-stream in the launch.