hat was all, but I was comforted, and the rugs became suddenly light.

Rooms were secured, great stress being laid upon a good sitting-room (in
case the important friend should call), and I unpacked as usual. When my
work was done, I asked her ladyship's permission to go out for a little
while. She looked suspicious, clawed her brains for an excuse to refuse,
but, as there wasn't a buttonless glove, or a holey stocking among the
party, she reluctantly gave me leave. I darted away, plunged into the
forest, and did not stop walking until I had got well out of sight of
the hotel. Then I sat down on a mossy log under a great tree, and looked
about for Jack.

A man was coming. I jumped up eagerly, and went to meet him as he
appeared among the trees.

It was Mr. Herbert Stokes.

CHAPTER XXX

"I followed you," he said.

"I thought so," said I. "It was like you."

"I want to talk to you," he explained.

"But I don't want to talk to you," I objected.

"You'll be sorry if you're rude. What I came to say is for your own
good."

"I doubt that!" said I, looking anxiously down one avenue of trees after
another, for a figure that would have been doubly welcome now.

"Well, I can easily prove it, if you'll listen."

"As you have longer legs than I have, I am obliged to listen."

"You won't regret it. Now, come, my dear little girl, don't put on any
more frills with me. I'm gettin' a bit fed up with 'em."

(I should have liked to choke him with a whole mouthful of "frills," the
paper kind you put on ham at Christmas; but as I had none handy, I
thought it would only lead to undignified controversy to allude to
them.)

"I had a little conversation about you with the Duchesse de Melun night
before last," Bertie went on, with evident relish. "Ah, I thought that
would make you blush. I say, you're prettier than ever when you do that!
It was she began it. She asked me if I knew your name, and how Lady T.
found you. Her Ladyship couldn't get any further than 'Elise,' for, if
she knew any more, she'd forgotten it; but thanks to your friend the
shuvver, I could go one better. When I told the duchess you called
yourself d'Angely, or something like that, she said 'I was sure of it!'
Now, I expect you begin to smell a rat--what?"

"I daresay you've been carrying one about in your pocket ever since," I
snapped, "though I can't think what it has to do with me. I'm not
interested in dead rats."

"This is your own rat," sa