With that marvellous power of self-command which the habit of the world teaches, she turned to him and laughed a little.
“All advertisements!—and six sheets from Fraulein Heyse about the children. Such a disappointment, the envelope looked so imposing.”
“For a clever liar at a pinch commend me to Cocky’s widow,” he thought.
When, a few days later, the whole party, warned by a snowstorm, rode down the mountains and through the meadows to Bergen to rejoin Sir Henry’s schooner, which was in harbor there, she, who was the gayest and noisiest amongst them, thought of nothing but of those two missing signatures.
To have had the others returned was useless whilst these two were out of her hands and in the power of someone unknown. She felt anxious to get to England, though what to do when she should be there in this matter she could not tell: tell the truth for once, perhaps—that last refuge of the desperate—in an appeal to Katherine Massarene’s mercy.
When she went on board the Bassenthwaite boat—a fine vessel which had gone all round the world—Sir Henry met her cheerfully; he had preceded the party by two hours.
“Here’s a pleasant surprise, Duchess,” he cried. “Your brother’s yacht’s in the roads; she was signalled this morning.”
“The Dianthus?” she asked, startled and dismayed.
“The Dianthus—yes,” he replied. “You will have some message, no doubt, soon. It is a surprise, eh?”
“A very great surprise,” she answered. “I thought Hurstmanceaux was in the Irish Channel.”