ill do nothing further,’ I said, ‘without consulting his lordship.

’
[12]
‘His lordship?’ He shrugged his shoulders, laughing contemptuously.
‘Her ladyship, then.’
He paused a moment.
‘Yes,’ he said; ‘you’re right.’ A new light seemed to break on him. ‘Yes,’
he repeated; ‘we’ll go at once on the chance of nding her at home. It is
only seven now. Let’s call a coach.’
So back we drove to Grosvenor Square, both in deep thought. Arrived at
the house, he took me into a small room, off the hall, and kept me waiting
there for the best part of an hour. I began to wonder, indeed, if he had
forgotten me altogether, and whether I had not best ring and make some
enquiry of the servants.
The room was dimly lit with wax candles, set in sconces high on the
silk-panelled wall; yet not so dimly but that, when the Colonel at last
returned, I could see he looked pale and agitated, while his hands and lips
trembled as he spoke. And my mind carried back to the day of the meet at
Vendale Green, when her ladyship—Queen of Beauty that she was—
stepped down from her pony-chaise, and stood on the damp turf beside his
great bay horse, talking to him; and how, straightening himself up with a
jerk, his face grey and aged as that of a man smitten with sudden illness,
he answered her: ‘Impossible, utterly impossible’; and how she, turning,
with a light laugh, got into the pony-chaise again, waving her hand to him
and wishing him good fortune.
‘Yes—you are to go,’ he said to me hurriedly. ‘See Hartover at once. His
address is number ⸺ Church Lane, Chelsea. You’ll remember?’
‘I shall.’
‘Remember, too, I am no party to this proceeding of yours. I warned you
against it. Whatever happens you will have brought on yourself.’
‘Very good. I am perfectly ready to accept the responsibility of my own
actions.’
‘And I say—see here, Brownlow. You won’t tell Hartover I gave you his
address.’
fi
 ‘Of course not, if you desire it. I can decline to say where I learnt it.’
‘He’ll nd out, though, through the other of cers,’ he muttered, as we
crossed the hall and he saw me into the still waiting coach. ‘It’s an
accursed business, and we shall come ill out of it. I know we shall; but a
woman must have her way.’
[13]
‘For Heaven’s sake,’ I cried, ‘remember you are not alone.’
He looked ercely at me, as one who should say, ‘What have I
betrayed?’ Then added with a sneer:
‘Brownlow, I wish to God we’d never seen you. You’re a devilish deal
too honest a fellow to have got among us.’
With which cryptic words he went back into the great house, leaving me
to drive down to Chelsea, and to my thoughts. What they were I hardly
knew myself. Suf cient that I was most miserable and full of questioning
dread.
We passed, as it seemed, through endless streets, until we reached the
then lonely King’s Road; drove along it, turned to the left down Church
Lane, and drew up at a door in a high wall apparently enclosing a garden. I
got out of the coach and rang the bell. A moment after I heard a woman’s
quick tripping footsteps within. The door was ung wide open, disclosing
a covered way leading to a pretty hall, gay with coloured curtains and
carpets, and a voice cried:
‘Ah! c’est toi en n, mon bien aimé. A-t-il perdu le clef encore une fois,
le petit étourdi?’
The speaker and I recoiled apa
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