She had barely uttered the words when she set down her cup. The roll of distant wheels had fallen on her ears. She listened for a few seconds, then she rose in haste and rang the bell. “Martha,” she said when the maid appeared, “are the two warming-pans in the bed?”
“To be sure, Ma’am.”
“And well filled?” Miss Sibson spoke suspiciously.
“The sheets are as nigh singeing as you’d like, Ma’am,” the maid answered. “You can smell ’em here! I only hope,” she continued, with a quaver in her voice, “as we mayn’t smell fire before long!”
“Smell fiddlesticks!” Miss Sibson retorted. Then “That will do,” she continued. “I will open the door myself.”
When she did so the lights of the hackney-coach which had stopped before the house disclosed first Mary Vermuyden in her furs, standing on the step; secondly, Mr. Flixton, who had placed himself as near her as he dared; and thirdly and fourthly, flanking them at a distance of a pace or two, a tall footman and a maid.
“Good gracious!” Miss Sibson exclaimed, dismay in her tone.
“Yes,” Mary answered, almost crying. “They would come! I said I wished to come alone. Good-night, Mr. Flixton!”
“Oh, but I—I couldn’t think of leaving you like this!” the Honourable Bob answered. He had derived a minimum of satisfaction from his ride on the coach, for Mary had shown herself of the coldest. And if he was to part from her here he might as well have travelled with Brereton. Besides, what the deuce was afoot? What was she doing here?
“And Baxter is as bad,” Mary said plaintively. “As for Thomas——”