"Half-past four. I met Mr. Winnington in his car, and he said he'd be here about six."
"Good. I'm dying to talk to him. I have written to the Abbey to say we will call to-morrow. Of course, I ought to be her nursing mother in these parts"—said Lady Tonbridge reflectively—"I knew Sir Robert in frocks, and we were always pals. But my dear, it was I who hatched the cockatrice!"
Nora nodded gravely.
"It was I," pursued Lady Tonbridge, penitentially,—"who saddled him with that woman—and I know he never forgave me. He as good as told me so when we last met—for those few hours—at Basle. But how could I tell? How could anybody tell—she would turn out such a creature? I only knew that she had taken all kinds of honours. I thought I was sending him a treasure."
"All the same you did it, Mummy. And it won't do to give yourself airs now! That's what Mr. Winnington says. You've got to help him out."
"I say, don't talk secrets!" said a voice just outside the room. "For I can't help hearing 'em. May I come in?"
And, pushing the half-open door, Mark Winnington stood smiling on the threshold.
"I apologise. But your little maid let me in—and then vanished somewhere, like greased lightning—after a dog."
"Oh, come in," said Lady Tonbridge, with resignation, extending at the same time a hand of welcome—"the little maid, as you call her, only came from your workhouse yesterday, and I haven't yet discovered a grain of sense in her. But she gets plenty of exercise. If she isn't chasing dogs, it's cats."
"Don't you attack my schools," said Winnington seating himself at the tea-table. "They're A1, and you're very lucky to get one of my girls."