Perhaps for the first time in his life Lord Denningham was taken aback.
The vision was so wholly unexpected, so welcome, and yet most unwelcome, for behind the slim, girlish figure, muffled in its long travelling-coat, stood Michael Berrington and the young Breton, de Quernais, whom Denningham had met and strongly disapproved at that jolly hostel the Goat and Compasses.
Behind this triple apparition lurked a mystery calling for explanation.
However, at the moment, an impatient lady awaited an answer.
"Where is Morice?" she repeated, glancing from Denningham to Sir Stephen, who stood leaning against the wall laughing softly to himself in maudlin enjoyment.
"I fear, Mistress Gabrielle, that that is the question we have been asking ourselves for the last thirty-six hours."
My lord's tones were slightly mocking, and his glance into the pretty, flushed face over-bold.
Michael made a step forward.
"Mr. Conyers is here," he said quietly.
"Indeed, Mr. Berrington, you are vastly astute. On my honour, I am glad, however, to hear your news. Your father and I came here at Mr. Conyers' own invitation, but at present he appears to be absent—perhaps a Breton fashion of treating guests."