Emmeline, seeming to accept the hint, rose from the piano and bade them good-night.
“Out of the way for a month at least. That gives one time,” said Mr. Verinder, when the door had closed; and he gave his wife an oral sketch of the letter she was to write to Margaret explaining the state of affairs, putting Margaret on her guard, and telling her what precautions should be taken. He thought it ought, if possible, to be in the post-box before one a.m.
Poor Mrs. Verinder sat up late to write it.
Early next morning they received Margaret’s reply telegram—just the one word “Delighted.” Miss Emmeline had breakfast in her room, and this arrangement appeared to Mr. Verinder both natural and proper. At ten minutes to ten the single brougham with the luggage tray on top stood waiting at the door, and the footman who was to accompany it was in the hall waiting for the odd man to come through the baize doors with the luggage.
“Are Miss Verinder’s things down?” asked Mr. Verinder of somebody.
“No, sir,” said the butler, “I don’t think they are.”
“Where’s Hodson?”
Louisa Hodson leaned over the gilt balustrade on the first floor.
“Is Miss Verinder packed?”