"That is well, and I will send for you when the carriage comes around."
Edith simply bowed to show that she heard, and then her companion retired, locking the door after her, but marveling at the girl's apparent submission.
"There is no way to outwit rogues except with their own weapons—cunning and deceit," murmured the fair prisoner, bitterly, as she began to eat her breakfast. "I will be very wary and apparently submissive until I have matured my plans, and then they may chew their cud of defeat as long as it pleases them to do so."
After finishing her meal she dressed herself for the coming drive, but wondered why Mrs. Weld had not been up to see her, for, of course, she must know that something unusual had happened, or that she was ill again, since she had not joined her at breakfast.
A little later she heard a stealthy step outside her door, and the next moment an envelope was slipped beneath it into her room; then the steps retreated, and all was still again.
Rising, Edith picked up the missive and opened it, when another sealed envelope, addressed to her, in a beautiful, lady-like hand, and postmarked Boston, was revealed, together with a brief note hastily written with a pencil.
This latter proved to be from Mrs. Weld.
"Dear Child," it ran, "I have been requested not to go to you this morning, as you are particularly engaged, which, of course, I understand as a command to keep out of the way. But I want you to know that I mean to stand by you, and shall do all in my power to help you. I shall manage to see or write to you again in a day or two. Meantime, don't lose heart.
"Affectionately yours,
"Gertrude Weld.