“And you will be, peut-être, alone?”
“I think so.”
“That is good,” was Mademoiselle’s reply. Then she vanished to suggest some particularly soothing application for Peter Simpkins’ swollen gums.
At last the hour arrived when Penelope was to go. She bade her sister good-bye, and also the three little Amberleys, who regretted her departure without quite knowing why. A moment later, she had stepped into the wagonette and was being driven out of the town in the direction of Castle Beverley. The carriage had borne her just outside the suburbs, when a neat-looking black-robed figure appeared in the very middle of the King’s highway, imperatively demanding that the coachman should stop his horses. This the man, in some surprise, did. Mademoiselle then approached Penelope’s side.
“I have something to say to you, chérie,” she remarked, “something of the greatest importance. May I accompany you in your drive?”
“But how will you get home?” asked Penelope, very much annoyed and not at all inclined to comply.
“The homeward way signifies not,” responded Mademoiselle. “It is the drive with you, most dear one, and the so sacred confidences that form the essentials of this hour. You will not deny me, for in so doing, you will place yourself and your sister, the most adorable Brenda, in jeopardy.”
“I suppose you have something unpleasant to say,” said Penelope, “and if you have, the sooner you get it over, the better.”
“Then you do permit me to enter into the carriage?”
“I cannot help myself, but I cannot take you further than to the gates of the Castle.”