I stood before the great old fireplace with its enormous bright steel dogs of an age bygone, and chatted to her, noting that in her face there was no trace of anxiety, so well did she conceal her feelings before the servants. Our conversation was rather strained, it was true, mostly about a tennis tournament over at Drayton and regarding the decision of her brother to cut down and grub-up Oxen Wood, a favourite cover which he had suddenly taken it into his head to sweep away. Then, when tea had finished, she announced her intention of walking across the park to Stanion village and invited me to accompany her.
This I eagerly did, and a few moments later we were out in the bright afternoon sunshine. Our way led first up the north avenue across the deer park for half-a-mile, then along a narrow path through one of the densest woods in the district, called Geddington Chase, and afterwards skirted the river for some distance to Stanion mill, and thence by the high road to the village.
“You have been to London,” she exclaimed in a low voice as soon as we were safely out of hearing from the Hall. “Well, did you recollect what I told you?”
“I did, and I acted according to your directions,” was my quiet answer.
“And what did the woman say?” she inquired, turning to me eagerly, her face suddenly anxious and changed.
“She told me nothing. She refused to speak.”
“Ah!” my idol gasped, and I saw the light of hope at once die from her countenance. “As I expected! Just as I feared!”
“She says she cannot yet tell the truth,” I hastened to explain. “But I have made a compact with her.”
“How?”
Then I explained how I had discovered the house in Britten Street watched by the police; and how I had been able to give the Frenchwoman warning.