“But she’s such a plain little thing,” thought Brenda. “Of course she is wonderfully fair, but then she has no colour anywhere, nor any distinguished touches, and that white linen drew doesn’t suit her one bit. But all the same, she looks as I don’t look – I wish I could make it out – I hate being in this place, and yet, I must make myself agreeable, for I want them to ask me again and again.”
The long day came to an end, as the longest, brightest days will. There was early supper for the children, who did not partake of late dinner with their elders. This fact alone somewhat offended Brenda, who thought that there might have been an exception made in her favour; and after supper, when it was really cool and delightful, Honora came up to the young lady’s side and asked her what hour she would like the wagonette to come round.
“It is our small wagonette, but it’ll hold you four nicely,” she said. “Father tells me that you forgot to order your carriage to return, and of course we are delighted to send you back to Marshlands.”
“I should like your carriage at any time that suits yourself,” replied Brenda.
“Will eight o’clock do?” asked Honora.
Brenda made a careful calculation. Harry would probably be going on the Esplanade about eight or soon after. She was quite determined that the coachman should drive them round in that direction. She meant the coachman to draw up in order that she might speak to Harry. That, at least, she might achieve at the end of her long and unsatisfactory day.
So she said, in a meek voice, that she was very, very sorry to trouble the Beverleys, that it was very stupid of her to forget to order her own carriage to return, that her poor little head did often ache so badly with the care of her pupils – and so on, and so on, until Honora wondered when her regrets would end.
“It doesn’t matter at all,” she said, in her pleasant, well-bred voice; “we are delighted to send you back, of course, and I hope you have enjoyed your day.”
“Yes, thank you so much: your home is so delightful – so different from most places where I have the misfortune to live. And then to see my darling sister so perfectly happy – I am greatly obliged. I hope,” she added suddenly, “that you will permit Penelope to come to see us some day at Marshlands. We shan’t have much to offer her, but just a hearty welcome and the love of her sister.”
“You had best come out here again; it would be fifty times better,” said Honora. “However, you will let us know; and now I’ll just run and desire them to bring the wagonette round. Why, it’s five minutes to eight.”
Honora ran immediately out of the room and Penelope came in.
“Well, Pen – I’ve got my way. I managed the carriage, you see, although you, strange, callous little thing, would not ask for it for me. But I have a champion in that handsome Fred Hungerford, and I’ve been practically asked here again. But now, look here – you must help me whether you like it or not. Listen. I shall write to you in a day or two asking you to come to spend the day at Palliser Gardens, where we put up. You’ll just know what it is if you spend one day with us. You’ll know what it is to be stuffy and hot, and to have horrid food, and you’ll see our miserable attic bedroom where we sleep all four together. You dare not refuse: you wouldn’t be quite so mean as that; and after you’ve come to us, and have got back again, you’ve got to make the worst of it; and then I’ll ask you again, and when I ask you the second time, you’ve to see that we come here instead. Well, I think that is all. You know your duty. Whether you are ashamed of me or not, I am your only sister. Oh, here come my little charges: what frights, to be sure! Nina, do put your hat on straight and let me take that string from your hair – you utterly ridiculous child!”
Brenda pulled Nina with great firmness towards her, unplaited the shaggy mane, and let it fall once more over the child’s shoulders. Then the wagonette was heard approaching and Mrs Beverley said good-night to her visitors, and all the children of the Castle clustered around. Just at the last instant, Fanchon flew up to Pauline and whispered in her ear:
“I should like to describe my bangle to you, but I – I just – dare not. But thank you for having given us all such a scrumptious day!”
They got into the wagonette. The carriage rolled down the avenue and Brenda immediately enquired of Fanchon what secrets she had been pouring into little Miss Hungerford’s ears.
“Oh, something that concerns – a – a friend of mine,” said Fanchon, looking wicked and mysterious; and Brenda suddenly remembered the bangle and felt crosser than ever. But, after all, she had her consolation, for the band was playing its very best as they passed the Esplanade, and there was Harry standing talking and smoking with some other men. Brenda immediately pulled the check string and beckoned him. He came forward in delight and confusion.
“I shall be too tired to see you this evening, Mr Jordan,” said Brenda. “Drive on please, coachman. We have been having a delightful day,” she called out, as the man took her at her word, “at Castle Beverley.”
“She is a stunner!” said Joe Burbery to his friend. “And what swells she knows! I say, old man, I have seldom seen such a ripping girl!”
Chapter Seventeen
Gathering Clouds
Mrs Dawson was seated with that copy of the Standard which contained the advertisement for the gold bangle open on her knee. She had read the advertisement not only once, but twice. There was a reward offered for the recovery of the trinket of no less than three guineas. That seemed a very large sum of money to honest Mrs Dawson. She thought how acceptable it would be, and wished that the lost trinket might come in her way.
While she was ruminating, without quite knowing whether she would take any active steps, Jane, one of the house servants, entered and said that a lady wanted to know if there was a vacant room in the house.
“Oh, tell her there isn’t,” said Mrs Dawson rather crossly. “There’s nothing whatever except the back attic – the one just behind the large attic where Miss Carlton and the three Miss Amberleys sleep. We couldn’t put any one there, it’s so choky and hot these sultry days.”
Jane departed, but presently returned with the information that the lady did not mind what the room was like in the least and would be very glad to see the back attic.
“I don’t know that I want to let it,” said Mrs Dawson. “We’re chock full now and you and Mary Anne are worked off your legs.”
“That we are, ma’am; but we don’t mind if you should wish to fill the room,” answered the good-natured girl. “It’s the season, and every one should have their innings. She seems an easy-satisfied sort of body – a Frenchy, I should take it, from her style of talk.”
Here there came a clear, piercing voice at the very door of Mrs Dawson’s private sitting-room. This sitting-room was the smallest apartment imaginable. It faced west too, and was hot at the present moment with the afternoon sun.
“Pardonnez – pardonnez” said the voice; “I do so want that appartement that your domestique did mention. I mind not the heat – oh, not in the very least. I am from la belle France, where the days are hotter than your English days, and the sun more bright, and the world more gay.”
Here Mademoiselle boldly entered the room and came up to Mrs Dawson.
“I am a poor Frenchwoman, out for a little recreation. My funds are of the most petits, and I am satisfied with the very least that can content any mortal. May I see the appartement so minute, and judge for myself if it will suffice?”
Mrs Dawson eyed the visitor with scant favour. She disliked foreigners with all an Englishwoman’s prejudice, and wondered how Miss Price, and in particular Mrs Simpkins – who had the best rooms in the house, owing to the needs of her large family – would like to associate with the “Frenchy.” She was, therefore, distinctly cold.
“I told my servant to tell you, Mademoiselle,” – Mrs Dawson’s lips quivered over the name; she had not pronounced it for many a long day – “that my house was full.”
“But not replete,” said Mademoiselle with avidity. “She did let out, that faithful one, that there was one appartement triste in your beautiful villa. I feel that I should be at home here. It is wonderful when we feel that drawing of the heart towards certain of our fellow-creatures. I should love to be a member of your little family. I should make myself très-agréable: I should converse in the broken English which makes your folk laugh. We of the French tongue never laugh at your mistakes when you try to copy us. But I mind not that. I like you to laugh. May I see the chamber and decide for myself?”
“Well, if you are satisfied,” said Mrs Dawson, “I of course want to make as much money as I can. The room is at the very top of the house, and I have stowed away one or two boxes just under the roof. I hardly ever let it because it faces due west and the slates get so hot people complain that they can’t sleep in it of nights. It’s next door, also, to a large attic where three young ladies and their governess sleep. You mayn’t even find quiet in the little room.”
“I mind not,” said Mademoiselle, “I am accustomed to the vagaries of the youthful. I am indeed a teacher from that most distinguished school, Hazlitt Chase. My dear pupil, Penelope Carlton, and I, came to Marshlands two nights ago, she to visit my dear and most beloved pupil, Miss Honora Beverley, and I to search for a meagre appartement in the cheapest part of your gay and sparkling town. I find not what I want. I roam abroad to-day to seek for fresh quarters. I see your house so cool, so chaste, so – if I may use the word – refined. I say to myself – here is a home, here is a rest: I mind not the hot attic, for by day, at least, I shall be happy.”
“Oh, if you know Miss Beverley, that makes all the difference,” said Mrs Dawson. Her manner changed on the spot. “It is strange,” she continued, “that you should come from the school where Miss Beverley is being educated, and it is still stranger that the sister of one of your pupils should be at the present moment occupying the room next to the west attic. She is an exceedingly pretty young lady, and remarkably well off. She’s a governess to three little pupils, and they’re well supplied with not only the necessaries, but the luxuries of life. Even jewellery of the best sort isn’t denied them. But there – what a chatterbox I am! Jane, take this lady up to the western attic, and let her decide whether she will be satisfied to sleep there.” Jane and the voluble Mademoiselle climbed the weary stairs up to the attic which, at the present moment, must have registered ninety degrees in the shade. Even Mademoiselle gasped a trifle as she entered the tiny room; but she was too glad to be in the same house with Brenda Carlton not to put up with some personal discomforts. She, accordingly, decided to engage the apartment; told Jane that her luggage of the most modest would arrive within an hour and went down to interview Mrs Dawson.
“You do deprecate yourself, dear Madame,” she said. “Your room you so despise is to me a haven of rest. It is doubtless what might be called hot, but what of that? It belongs to a home, and I shall– I feel it – be happy under your roof.”
“My terms,” said Mrs Dawson, “are – ”
Mademoiselle puckered her brows with anxiety. “You would not be hard on a poor French governess,” she said. “She would make herself très-agréable: she would tell stories of the most witty at your dinner table: she would make your visitors laugh and laugh again. She would instruct you in that cooking of la belle France which you English know so little about. She would offer herself to market for you in the land of these broiling July days. You will not be hard on one at once so poor and so useful.”
“I charge the ladies in the front attic a guinea a week each,” said Mrs Dawson.
“But that chamber is magnifique!” cried Mademoiselle. “I asked your most delightful Jane to show it to me, and I was struck by its size and the beautiful draught that blew through it. Indeed, it is cheap – very cheap – to live in such a room in the very height of the season for so small a sum. But the western attic, Madame, you will not charge the poor lonely foreigner as much for the western attic?”
After considerable chaffering on both sides, Mrs Dawson decided that she would give Mademoiselle the stifling western attic for eighteen and sixpence per week. This sum, of course, was to include her board. The French teacher considered matters carefully for a minute, then said with a smile:
“Ah, well! I must perforce agree. It is large – it is ruinous! But what shall I do? Where there is no choice, one must put up with the inevitable. I will do for you, Madame, all that I would have done had you taken this lonely one for twelve or fifteen shillings a week. I will still entertain your visitors, and teach you the recipes of my own land, and go errands for you and make myself, in truth, your valued friend.”
“Thank you, very much,” said Mrs Dawson, “but it isn’t my habit to trouble my visitors. Of course I always value a pleasant person at table, but otherwise I do my own housekeeping and I go my own messages.”
“Ah – Madame! you know me not yet. You will yet esteem my services. What a delicious cool appartement is your own!”
The room was steaming hot, and poor Mrs Dawson’s face testified to the fact. Mademoiselle, however, was in the best of humours. She hurried away to fetch her luggage – that small packet which she had carried in one hand while she dragged Pauline Hungerford along the platform with the other; and she had sat down and made herself quite one of the family by the time supper was announced.
During supper, she caused the entire company to convulse with laughter. She told one funny story after another, entreating them to laugh their hearts full and not to mind her poor English, which she would speak better if she knew how. In short, she was established as a most agreeable addition to Number 9, Palliser Gardens by the time the Beverleys’ wagonette drew up at the door with the three little Amberleys and Brenda Carlton ensconced within.
As the ladies had gone out to see Miss Carlton off, so did the ladies once more reassemble to witness Miss Carlton’s return. She was certain that she would feel to her dying day that she had achieved this, at least, with flying colours. The very look of the coachman on the box and of the footman as he flung open the door and helped the three awkward girls to descend, had such a paralysing effect upon the members of Mrs Dawson’s boarding-house, that they were all silent for a moment.
“That will do,” said Brenda, as she shook out her white skirts on the steps.
Then the coachman turned homewards, and after that, all tongues were loosened. Brenda was almost carried into the house by the other boarders.
“Come straight into the drawing-room,” said Miss Price, “and tell us all about it. Oh, by the way, may I introduce you to a most charming addition to our circle, Mademoiselle d’Etienne. Mademoiselle arrived to-day. Mademoiselle, this is Miss Brenda Carlton.”
“I have the so great pleasure to know your sister,” said Mademoiselle, in a small, distinct voice, fixing her black eyes on Brenda’s face.
“You know Penelope?” cried Brenda.
“I have the so immense honour to educate that fascinating young lady in that elegant tongue of my beloved France. She is an obedient pupil and does to me credit.”
Brenda felt confused, interested, and on the whole pleased. They all entered the drawing-room, the three girls dead tired with their day and, consequently, very cross; Brenda was more or less cross also, but gratified to find there was such a fuss being made about her. Mademoiselle was cool, ugly, but nevertheless charming looking. What was there about her French dress and French manner which lifted her altogether into a different world from her dowdy English neighbours?
She was in black too – black from head to foot; but her black dress fitted her like a glove and her hair was most becomingly arranged. In short, she looked finished. Mrs Simpkins looked the reverse of finished, for she had just had a scuffle with her eldest baby in which the baby had been distinctly victorious; and Miss Price was hot and untidy, cross with the weather, but, nevertheless, ready to welcome the gossip that Brenda might treat them to.
“Oh, you poor childrens!” said Mademoiselle. “Miss Carlton will you not send these petites to their rest – they look so fatiguées. They want the repose so essential to the youth. What sweet childrens! I know I shall adore them all. But go, my little ones. Mademoiselle, you permit? Yes – go at once to your needed rest.”
“Yes, children; do run upstairs,” said Brenda. “Fanchon, you must go with the rest; we’re not going out this evening.”
“Oh, you’ve said that already!” remarked Fanchon in a rude voice, “and you’ve let the cat out of the bag too!” she continued, a venomous expression coming into her face; for the younger girls were not supposed to know anything of the existence of Harry Jordan.
“What cat out of what bag?” asked Mademoiselle. “I do so adore cats in bags – what mean you, mon enfant– your words thrill me – what cat out of what bag?”
“Hold your tongue, Fanchon, and go to bed!” said Brenda.
“Obey your governess, my dear,” said Mrs Simpkins. “You’re dead tired: creep upstairs, all three of you, and don’t, for the life of you, wake my Georgie, for he’s that fractious – enough to madden a body.”
The girls had to depart, and then Miss Price went up to Mrs Dawson and whispered something in her ear, the result of which was that Mrs Dawson went to the door and called Jane. She gave her hurried directions and, by-and-by, what should appear in the little drawing-room but delicious ices which had hastily been fetched from a neighbouring confectioner’s, and which Miss Price meant to pay for. Mademoiselle declared that she fairly gloated on the ices made in Angleterre; even Brenda was soothed by a really good strawberry ice, and, as there was one apiece, all the ladies congregated round and ate their dainties with deliberation.
“Now tell me about the Castle, do,” said Miss Price. “Is it as grand as they make out, or do they exaggerate?”
“Of course they exaggerate,” said Mrs Simpkins. “Folks of that kind always do.”
“But no,” cried Mademoiselle, “that is imposseeble to exaggerate the so great glories of Castle Beverley! It cannot be done. I have heard it described, and I was ravished with what I was told.”
“I have been there,” said Brenda. “I have spent the day; my sister is a special friend of Miss Beverley.”
“Not so very special,” whispered Mademoiselle, something like a little snake at that moment, in Brenda’s ear. Brenda turned and looked full at her. Their eyes met. It seemed at that instant that these two – the young girl and the experienced woman – crossed swords, and that Brenda got the worst of the encounter. There was a pause for a minute. Then she said, quietly:
“I don’t know with regard to the depth of the friendship, but I only know that my sweet sister Penelope is staying at the Castle, and that it is – oh, well – a very nice sort of place. I could imagine more beautiful places.”
“Windsor Castle, perhaps,” whispered Mademoiselle, at which remark Miss Price tittered audibly.
“But tell us, dear,” said Mrs Simpkins. “I have been thinking all day about it. I assure you that the thought of your return has kept me up although the heat is fearful, and Georgie is so cross, and little Peter cutting another tooth – oh dear! Of course I love my children, but sometimes they seem to do things just to spite you; for the doctor told me flat that Peter’s eye-teeth would not be due for another two months, and I made certain that we’d have our seaside holiday over before he began on it. The aggravation of eye-teeth is almost past bearing. I often say if a woman can live through the eye-teeth of her children, she’ll live through anything. But there – I am digressing. Go on, Miss Carlton, do.”
“What did you have to eat?” said Mrs Dawson. “Was there anything that specially took your fancy?”
“Ah, yes – tell us that!” cried Mademoiselle, “for I could copy it for these dear, most select and amiable ladies. I should so love to give them the benefit of my French experience.”
“I don’t know what we had to eat,” said Brenda. “Perhaps Nina could tell you to-morrow – she is our greedy one.”
“Poor little thing!” said Mrs Simpkins. “You’ve let her off her accounts, I see, and that’s a blessing. Now, Miss Carlton, you won’t take it amiss, but if you will allow a motherly body like myself to speak, you won’t be too harsh with that poor child. She’s a good child, and means well; and why in the name of goodness she should be pestered with that account-book and pencil at all hours of the day beats me.”
“Is this what would be so called a secret?” asked Mademoiselle, “for, if so, I will – to speak in the figurative way – stop up my ears.”
“Oh, no,” said Brenda, “it is nothing: I am teaching my youngest pupil a lesson, and these ladies – even dear Mrs Simpkins – fail to understand.”
“Ah – how I you do admire!” said Mademoiselle. “I also have my methods. We, dear Miss Carlton, will have much in common. We will talk together of our pupils and our wrongs.”
“For my part, I am getting sleepy,” said Miss Price, “and the conversation is not nearly so interesting as I hoped it would have been.”
She looked regretfully at the empty ice plates and thought of the bill she would have to pay at Jones’ on the morrow.
“But what did you suppose I would have to talk about?” asked Brenda, putting the last morsel of delicious strawberry ice into her mouth as she spoke.
“Oh, I’m sure I can’t tell. I had a sort of vision of a delightful time – I thought you’d begin at the very beginning, as they pay in the story books, and tell us of everything – what he said to her, you know, and what she said to him, and how they were all dressed – ”
“And a good lot about the food,” interrupted Mrs Simpkins. “I’m great on nice food myself, and it’s delightful to think that a good-natured French body has come to stay here – ”
“I will make you,” interrupted Mademoiselle, “of the salade the most enjoyable with a taste of mayonnaise, that cannot be compounded except by a person born in la belle France.”
“You mustn’t let Georgie see it, then,” said Mrs Simpkins, “for if he swallows even a morsel of anything Frenchy, he’ll be done for!”
“I could fancy it myself,” said Miss Price. “I am very much obliged indeed to Mademoiselle for thinking of making us a proper French salad.”
“And so am I, although you oughtn’t to trouble yourself,” said Mrs Dawson, who began to perceive that Mademoiselle might be exceedingly useful to her.
“Well, ladies,” said Brenda, rising, “I think I will go to bed. I am a little tired to-night, for we have been out so much. It was sweet of you, Miss Price, to give us those delicious ices. I have never enjoyed anything better. Doubtless, to-morrow, when I am refreshed, I shall have numerous little anecdotes to tell each of you in turn, but not before the children. It is so bad for children, too, to hear their friends gossiped about.”
“I agree with them sentiments,” said Mrs Simpkins. “I wouldn’t have Georgie listen to the tell-tales between me and Maria – that’s my maid at home – for all the world. Why, he’d have it out to his pa at his next meal for certain.”
“I’ll tell you each in confidence,” said Brenda, “and,” she added, “I daresay there’ll be plenty of fresh news for the future, for I expect to go constantly to Castle Beverley, and my sister is coming to spend the day with me soon.”
“Not Penelope, my most adored one!” cried Mademoiselle. “Do you say, dear Miss Carlton, that I am to see my sweetest pupil so soon?”
“I don’t know the exact day,” said Brenda, “but you will see her if you happen to stay here.”
“Stay here?” said Miss Price. “Of course we trust Mademoiselle will stay! It is delightful to have a real Frenchwoman in the house.”
“I said this place was home,” said Mademoiselle, raising her eyes ceilingward.
Brenda went up to her room. There she found all the girls already disposed of in their separate beds. To her relief, they were all, even Fanchon, sound asleep. She sat down for a short time by the open window and thought over matters. She did not altogether like the turn of events. Try as she would, she felt that she would never be anything but a nobody at Castle Beverley. More anxious than ever was she to secure Harry Jordan as her affianced husband. She had a shrewd guess as to his sort of character, and wondered what impression she would make on him when they met the following evening. Poor Brenda went to sleep fairly happy, on the whole, that night, little guessing what a very active disturber to her peace Mademoiselle d’Etienne would prove herself to be.
The next day broke, as usual, with cloudless splendour. The different ladies went out Brenda strolled abroad with her pupils. She found a shady place under a cliff, and sat there to rest, and looked around her.
Meanwhile, Mademoiselle devoted herself to Mrs Dawson. She insisted on going shopping, if not for her, yet with her. And Mademoiselle had an eye for a bargain which even that astute Englishwoman, Mrs Dawson, could never hope to possess. Why, those tomatoes which she purchased for almost nothing would never have been observed at all by the good lady, and then those little crabs which were going for a few pence (Mrs Dawson, as a rule, never purchased small crabs, but Mademoiselle begged of her, on this occasion, to do so) were soon disposed of in the worthy woman’s basket; and lettuces, with other tempting fresh vegetables, were secured. Mademoiselle implored of Mrs Dawson to let her arrange the supper table that night.
“You have bought but little,” she said; “nevertheless, it is enough. I will surprise the good, the dear ladies of your charming family with the French supper which I will prepare.”
“But Mary Anne will never stand it,” objected Mrs Dawson.
“Is she your cook?”
“Yes, and a very good one too – I pay her a lot of wages.”
“Never mind: I will counsel her, and I will talk with her: I will get her to think that she herself has made the soufflé and the omelette and the tomato soup and the delectable preparation of crabs. She will know it not, except as her own handiwork, and I will be your cook.”
“It is too much to expect of you,” said Mrs Dawson, really won over by her paying guest’s extraordinary kindness.
“Have I found a home – and am I ungrateful?” was Mademoiselle’s response.
The result of this was that the two ladies came back the most excellent friends, and sat together until early dinner in that stifling little parlour. In that small room Mademoiselle got a good deal of information with regard to Brenda, whom she was interested in for more reasons than one, and also saw the advertisement for the lost bracelet with her own eyes. She read it over carefully and her black eyes glittered with excitement.
“It is a reward magnifique!” she said.
“I wish I could find it,” said Mrs Dawson.
“If we were both to find it, chère amie,” said the Frenchwoman, “we might divide the so great profits.”
“But we never can,” said Mrs Dawson. Then she added, after a minute’s pause, “All the same, I’d like to say something.”
“And what is that?” asked Mademoiselle.
“You mustn’t breathe it, please. You’re quite a stranger to me, but coming from Hazlitt Chase, and knowing Miss Beverley, I suppose you’re to be trusted.” Mademoiselle laid her hand dramatically on her very fat chest.
“I suppose so,” she replied.
“And I must confide in some one, for the thing seems to burn a sort of hole in me.”
“My good, dear, delightful friend,” said the Frenchwoman, “don’t let the secret prey on you in that fashion, for it will undermine your so precious health. Confide it to one who is ardent to help you, who has for you already the affection the most profound.”
“It is nothing, of course,” said Mrs Dawson, “and you will promise not to tell.”
“I have promised.”
Again the hand was laid over the region of the heart.
“Well, then, – it is just this. I know a good jewel when I see it, for my poor husband, the late Dawson, was in the jewellery line, and he taught me to know at a glance the difference between poor gold and good gold, and imitation stones and real ones; and if you will believe me, Mademoiselle d’Etienne, that little minx of a Fanchon Amberley came into the house the other evening with a bangle on her arm which for all the world might have been this,” – here she pointed to the Standard. “That bangle might have meant three guineas in my pocket, for it was eighteen carat gold as I am alive, and the turquoise in it was the most beautiful I ever saw.”
Mademoiselle’s dark face flushed and then paled; but she did not stir or show any other sign of special interest. After a minute, she said gently:
“There are so many bangles now-a-days, and they are all more or less alike.”
“Of course Miss Fanchon – ”
“Ridiculous to call an English girl by one of our names – ”
“Had it of her own – she said a friend gave it to her, but she was very mysterious about it.”
“I’d like to see it,” said Mademoiselle.
“And so would I,” said Mrs Dawson.
“I’d like to see it for a reason,” said Mademoiselle. “Mademoiselle d’Etienne, you don’t mean – ”
“I don’t know that I mean anything, but if I saw it, I’d know once for all.”
“What would you know?”
“I tell you what, Mrs Dawson. I have examined the bracelet that little Pauline Hungerford – one of my adorable pupils – has worn, which she got on the day of the break-up. I took it in my hand, and she allowed me to examine it, and I know the other was exactly the same except for the difference in the stones. I should like to see the bracelet that the young lady who ought not to possess bangles, wears.”
“I don’t believe you will: there’s something about that governess which makes me think her a deep one – I can’t be certain, but I have my suspicions – and she seemed distressed, I don’t know why, when I noticed the bangle on Miss Fanchon’s arm.”