Upstairs, in my own room, my knapsack was lying in a corner, ready for my proposed week-end tour. Beside it, stood my golf clubs. These will do, I found myself thinking: a knapsack with a change of linen and a bag of golf clubs,—not a bad outfit to start life with.
I opened my purse:—fifty pounds and a few shillings. Not much, but enough! In fact, nothing would have been plenty.
Suddenly I remembered that, before I went, I had a duty to perform. From my inside pocket, I took the letter which Harry had written to little, forlorn Peggy Darrol. I went to my writing desk and addressed an envelope to Lady Rosemary Granton. I inserted Harry's letter and sealed the envelope. As to the bearer of my message, that was easy. I pushed the button at my bedside and, in a second, sweet little Maisie Brant came to the door.
Maisie always had been my special favourite, and, on account of my having pulled her out of the river when she was only seven years old, I was hers. She had never forgotten. I cried to her in an easy, bantering way in order to reassure her.
"Neat little Maisie, sweet little Maisie;
Only fifteen and as fresh as a Daisy."
She smiled, but behind her smile was a look of concern.
"I am going away, Maisie," I said.
"Going away, sir?" she repeated anxiously, as she came bashfully forward.
"I won't be back again, Maisie. I am going for good."
She looked up at me in dumb disquiet.