‘Wait! No time for that. ’ ‘And was not she put out?’ demanded Miss Froxfield with a tinkling laugh. He was so seldom wrong. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head. When he returned, it was always the same. Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who was enjoying himself. The man’s as obstinate as a mule. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. Arrived at the extremity of the building, he found that it overlooked the flat-roof of a house which, as far as he could judge in the darkness, lay at a depth of about twenty feet below. Lucy knocked again. ’ ‘I thought you were dead,’ Melusine confided.
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