Part 11

"Well, I don't like it then," Pamela cut her short with raised tone. "I don't like it, and I won't bear the burden of the things she does. So far _I_ am the only person who has spoken to her--in our family--but unless you let me see her now, and speak to her, and settle things up, I will tell them all--every one."

Mrs. Chipman tried to speak. Pamela continued firmly,

"I don't want to be the least rude, but if you are responsible and all the rest of it, why don't you look after her? Do you know she threw a note into my brother's window last night about eleven, or half-past ten?"

Mrs. Chipman gave a squeak like a trapped mouse, then she pressed a hand to her tight bodice.

"Surely, surely, miss--I cannot credit----"

"It was Hughie's window, the next to mine," went on Pamela, "_he_ brought it in to me, because it was addressed to me. How she knew our rooms I can't say--but that doesn't matter--the point is, what was she doing in our grounds at that time?"

Then flashed into Pamela's mind the power of the whip she held--she went on:

"What would Sir Marmaduke say, Mrs. Chipman? If you won't let me see her, I shall certainly ask _him_ if I may--and explain matters."

Mrs. Chipman was "taken all aback", like a full-rigged ship up in the wind. She hesitated.

"Far be it from me, Miss Pamela, to place obstacles----"

"That's all right then," said Pam, "can I see her now?"

At that moment a bell pealed somewhere in the house. Really pealed, with the jangling force of a violently pulled bell.

"If you will excuse me, miss," said Mrs. Chipman, visibly perturbed. She opened the door, and hurried out into the hall, Pamela following closely with interest very wide awake.

Again the bell was rung, more forcefully than ever.

"Dear, oh dear!" muttered Mrs. Chipman, increasing her pace.

Pamela giggled.

But the bell-puller was unreasonably impatient. A door on the right hand of the hall--same side as the room they had quitted, but the last door--opened sharply, and the girl under discussion appeared. She wore no hat, and held a book in her hand.

"I rang twice," she said, "I heard voices, and----"

Pamela came forward. Drawn up to her full height, her carriage and manner were at least as haughty as those of the other girl.

"_I_ was talking to Mrs. Chipman," she said. "As a matter of fact I came to see you, and she was doubtful about it; so I told her I insisted."

"Excuse me, Countess," burst in Mrs. Chipman, "but I must protest now, and once for all against irregular conduct. I stand in the position of guardian. The grounds are open to you, and you have the option of gravitation to any portion of the wood, orchards, or gardens--there is no excuse----"

"You talk too much," said the girl irritably, "be silent. You are not a guardian, you are my maid--Sir Marmaduke is my guardian, for the time. Come into this room, Miss Romilly, I will receive you here."

She turned round and went back into the drawing-room, leaving Mrs. Chipman blown out like an angry bird with feathers on end.

Pamela followed--thinking hard, "receive me! Cheek!" and the other revelation--"So Countess wasn't a dog! I wonder what sort of Countess!"

In the drawing-room with the door closed, the two girls faced each other standing. And Pamela was again struck by the beauty and imperious style of this odd "double". Also, she had to admit how wonderfully alike they were in general effect.

Pamela began the conversation.

"I've come about your--note," she said with a little gesture of her hand towards her skirt pocket, "I suppose you don't realize that you mistook the room and threw it into my brother's window?"

"Oh, the little boy's room. He gave it to you?"

"Yes."

"Did he read it?"

"I don't understand you," said Pam frowning.

"Did he open it when he picked it up in his room?"

"Naturally not," Pamela stiffened, "you don't seem to understand. No decent people open other people's letters."

Countess shrugged her shoulders.

"Just so. That is well then. But if you received my note why did you not come to the wood?"

"Come! When?"

"The hour that I appointed. 8.30."

Pamela raised her eyebrows.

"So you expected me to go to Clawtol at half-past eight this morning, because you wished it! Doesn't it occur to you that you are--well--rather presumptuous? Why--on--earth--should I?"

Pamela fired off each word, as it were, with a separate emphasis.

The girl seemed a little taken aback by this way of looking at things.

"Wretched creature," thought Pamela suddenly, with the broad instinct of fair play natural to girls of her upbringing, "she's always had her own way. She thinks herself a little tin god! She doesn't understand!"

"Can I sit down?" she said aloud, and without waiting for an answer took her seat on a big sofa, near the window.

The other girl moved a step or two nearer, and sat down at the other end of the same sofa.

"Well, look here," went on Pamela, "let's understand each other, if you don't mind, then there won't be any bother."

"Is there some bother?" asked the other girl.

Pamela controlled her temper with effort. The assumption of superiority was so aggravating.

"There will be a good deal of bother, if you do unreasonable things," she went on, trying to be indifferent. "If you want to send notes would you kindly leave them at the front door, because----"

"Impossible," interrupted the Countess decidedly, "you see I am not supposed to go outside these grounds. If I were to walk to your house openly I should betray myself. I do not stay in the grounds of course, because I wish to go outside. But I employ my own means."

Pamela looked at her with a frustrated feeling. If only the girl were not so horribly "cock-sure"!

"Well, look here," she began at another point, "will you tell me your name? I find it a bit difficult to talk without knowing it."

A sort of glint flashed in the stranger's eyes. And Pamela's natural perceptions caused her to read the thought behind that glint on the instant.

The girl imagined she was fishing for information!

"You can call me 'Countess', if you wish to give me a name," she answered, "I have eight names, but I do not tell them to people in this place. You heard my maid say 'Countess'. Very well, then, you can also say Countess."

"Oh, thanks--that's very obliging of you," said Pamela, quite unimpressed, "it's as you please, of course. And after that, to get to the reason of my visit. I naturally supposed that you meant me to meet you at 8.30 to-night."

"Oh--to-night will do," allowed the Countess quite amiably, "I wished this morning, because I was in a hurry, but to-night will do as you have misunderstood my meaning."

"_Neither_ would do, simply because I've no intention of meeting you anywhere, or at any time. It is just as well you should understand."

There was a pause. Then Pamela took up her parable again--rather enjoying herself.

"As I said to you a few minutes ago, why on earth should I? _I_ don't want to be bothered with meeting anybody on the sly--we don't do it in our family. The others would soon notice and think I was doing a low-down thing. I don't know you--I don't know your name. You are no business of mine. I don't care what you've got to say if it is secret--if it isn't, well, be open. That's the whole position, please understand I came here because I wish to be open, and to tell you honestly."

The Countess sat still with her eyes gazing at the carpet, her glance had dropped from Pamela's expressive face and large clear eyes.

"You are unkind," she said, after a moment of silence. "I have no one--no one."

She clasped her hands together rigidly on her lap, and Pam saw that they shook. The corners of her proud mouth twitched a little. But she held herself severely in check, and controlled evident emotion.

_This_ was worse than anything to a girl with a heart like Pamela's.

"I'm sorry," she said, "awfully sorry--but, what did you want me for?"

She was annoyed with herself for asking, it was a weakness, she felt that.

Countess raised her eyes to meet Pam's. There was a something the least bit softer over their hard brightness.

"I am troubled," she said, "and wished to ask advice from you. When we carried that boy up the cliff yesterday I dropped my brooch--it was a safety pin of rather large size, of gold, and with my first letter and the crown in diamonds. My mother gave it to me on my birthday when I was twelve years old--I would not lose it for the world.--It was in my blouse--here, you see," she touched the opening of her silk shirt. "I don't know what I should do, I cannot find it--but I cannot offer a reward--what shall I do?"

"You were on the cliff this morning looking for it, weren't you?" asked Pamela, full of sympathy, and realizing the reason for Adrian's attack on herself.

Countess nodded.

"Oh, for a long while, everywhere."

"My brother saw you. They were coming back from Salterne in the yawl, and passed under the Beak about seven o'clock. They thought it was _I_, you see," Pamela made a little grimace of disgust, "and said what was I doing there? I said I wasn't there."

"Did they believe you?" asked Countess, with a sudden interest that made her seem more girlish.

"Crow did."

"'Crow'!"

"I beg your pardon, I mean Christobel, my elder sister. She is Mollie Shard's friend, and she's going to be presented fairly soon--she's done with school--but we are awfully good chums. _She_ believed me, of course. She'd sooner mistrust her own eyes than my word, because we both know we wouldn't tell each other crammers."

"Is that lies?"

"Yes. She knows I wouldn't. _You_ wouldn't tell your sister lies when you knew she trusted you, would you?"

Countess shrugged her shoulders with a faint air of amusement.

"I have no sister, so--well! But I should tell any person what I like, and whatever suited me to say. No one is bound to incriminate themselves. It is not 'lies', as you call it--that is business, and common-sense."

"Can't agree with you at all," said Pamela icily. "'Business and common-sense to tell lies when it paid'. Nice sort of ideas!"

She sat silent for a moment, then she asked:

"Are you at school?"

"Since I was ten years old, I have stayed--with a family--in England."

"Oh, then you are not _English_?" Pamela felt a sense of relief, though she always tried hard not to be narrow.

"No," said the Countess, adding, after a moment's pause, "I was to go to school next term after the summer holidays."

"Shall you now?"

"I don't know. I dare say not. I went for a while, it was horrible. I left soon; I don't know about anything."

"No wonder she left soon," thought Pamela, "her talk is simply full of 'I's', never heard anyone say so many." Again there was silence, because it was not easy to keep up conversation; the situation was so cramped and artificial to a girl of "open-air" temperament. Pamela began wondering if it would not be better to go now; she had said her say, and wanted to end it all.

"Well, I'm awfully sorry about your brooch," she pulled up her gloves, and made a move to stand up. "If I hear that anyone has found it, what shall I do? I can't claim it. Shall I give it to the Police--or what about Miss Ashington?"

"Who is Miss Ashington? Don't go yet--I want to talk to you--I want to know things."

Pamela settled down rather uneasily, for the Countess had laid a restraining hand on her arm.

"Oh, Miss Ashington is Lady Shard's sister," she answered the first question simply.

"Yes, of course, but I forgot. Chipman told me that, I remember now. No, how could I tell her, it would betray me, since the brooch is lost on the cliff, or the road. I cannot tell what I shall do--besides this Miss Ashington knows nothing of me--no one knows."

Again she conveyed an impression to Pamela that she was not telling the truth. Whether it was a true impression or not, it stiffened Pamela's resolution.

"I'm afraid I can't think of anything, then," she said, "if you don't know anyone _really_, and you won't let Mrs. Chipman offer a reward. If I find it, I'll leave it at the door with Mrs. Trewby. And now I must go, really and honestly."

"But you will come and see me," protested the Countess.

"How can I? You say yourself that Sir Marmaduke has put you here, and wishes no one to know. There must be some good reason for him to arrange that--he's an awfully kind, nice man, we all love him," said Pamela warmly. "I won't do sly things against his wish. Why, he's letting us use his lovely yacht now."

"That white yacht is his?" asked the other girl.

Pamela assented.

"And you go out on it when he is away?"

"He is allowing us to use her all the summer till he comes in September--it's awfully kind."

"Then who goes with you?" demanded the Countess; she seemed interested.

"No one, we manage her ourselves. There used to be a man, but they want him in the gardens at Crown Hill, so we go quite alone."

"Go where?"

"Oh, anywhere along the coast here. This morning Adrian and Christobel were coming from Salterne. They got caught in that thunderstorm the other day, and ran in there up to the harbour, left the yacht, and came back by train. Yesterday they went by train to fetch her, and came back early this morning."

Pamela was feeling a little more friendly as she talked about the _Messenger_. Memories rushed into her mind of the evening of the thunderstorm day and how the others had mistaken the Countess for her.

"That reminds me," she said, "on the evening of the thunderstorm day did you go out--to Folly Ho, on the Peterock Road, and come home late, quite late--half-past nine. Oh, nearly ten?"

The other girl considered. Not as though she did not remember, but as though she was not sure whether she would tell or no.

Pamela got up from her seat and walked a few steps; they walked together to the middle of the room, and paused there to say good-bye.

"Yes, no doubt I went out. I often do," said the Countess rather cautiously.

"Well, Addie and Crow--the others I mean--saw you. They were coming from the station. Didn't he whistle?"

"If you say so, I expect he did. I think I heard a whistle one night."

"He said you looked round and then ran. They thought it was I, and they were cross with me."

At this moment Pamela noticed that the other girl's attention was fixed upon a long mirror on the wall opposite She also looked, and saw the two full-length figures, each with its long tail of beautiful bright hair. The same height! The same figure! The same dress!

"Oh!" ejaculated Pam in startled dismay.

The Countess laughed, for the first time.

Afterwards, as Pamela hurried home with rather a perturbed mind, thinking puzzled thoughts, the picture of that pair of girls was distinct, and tiresome. She did not like it.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*Double "A" and a Diamond Crown*

In a day or two Pamela had recovered from those pricking fears. After all, there was nothing to worry about. The Countess would not worry her any more, because she had been firm. "The great thing is," thought Pam, "to be firm. To let people really see that you mean what you say, then they won't 'try it on'." She felt that the Countess had been inclined to "try it on". There was no doubt about that. Now it was ended, and no one a penny the worse. Who she was, or what she did at Woodrising must remain a mystery, for the present anyway. It was tantalizing, but, as the girl had offered no explanation herself, Pamela felt it would be impossible to pry or ask servants, even if they would answer. She was sorry about the brooch, sorry for the loneliness of this strange young person; all the same, she felt instinctively that the Countess could very well take care of herself.

The sun shone, the wind blew, not too hard. Pamela, with something of thankfulness, threw herself into the boating plans, and went out fishing for whiting, which the family ate joyfully.

Three or four days of peace went by, and then a positive bomb of annoyance fell into her pleasure, scattering destruction on all sides.

Adrian put off things often. He forgot, or seemed to for the moment, but never for good. There was a strong underlying tenacity in his nature; he always did--ultimately--what he said he would do. Therefore, after apparently forgetting what he had said about inspecting the Beak cliff, he went off one day before breakfast--after an early bathe--and went down over the ground that had been so much discussed.

The result was startling.

When Pamela came down to breakfast that morning she found everybody absorbed in the examination of some small thing Mrs. Romilly was holding. She, sitting in her place behind the urn, was turning this article in her hands, and Adrian, who had given it to her, was leaning over the back of her chair, Crow stooping over the tea-cups, Hughie enjoying a good view under people's arms, and Miss Chance pretending to see for fear of giving trouble.

Christobel looked up as Pamela entered.

"Oh, Pam--Addie has been on the Beak, and he has found the most adorable brooch--I wish to goodness Mum would feel we might keep it!"

"Why not? findings--keepings," said Adrian. "I present it to Mother. It's a ripper."

"Thank you, darling--but it wouldn't be possible to keep it." Mrs. Romilly held up the small object for Pamela to see.

Before she looked, she guessed, then taking it in her hand saw the guess was correct.

A gold safety pin about an inch and a half long, attached to it, the loveliest decoration, a double "A", that is two capital A's entwined, and above them a tiny coronet, the whole made in diamonds. It was stained with earth and damp when brought in, and Mrs. Romilly, putting it into a cup, washed it with hot water and rubbed it on her soft handkerchief. It was lovely, and obviously very valuable.

Pamela gazed at it speechless, turning it over in her hands, trying to think--but feeling too startled.

"Jolly lucky, wasn't I, Pam?" Adrian bent over and took the jewel from her.

"On the Beak?" questioned Pamela uncertainly.

"Yes. Just the place where you hauled up little Ensor. I 'reconstructed the crime', as the French Police do; result of reconstruction, can't think how you managed to do it! I couldn't. Found it took all the running I could do to keep in the same place, so to speak. Stiffish climb with no encumbrances. Just in a tuft of grass I found this thing stuck; it looked as though someone had dropped it and then trodden on it, squeezing it down fairly firm, but not burying it."

"How funny!" commented Pamela weakly. She felt it was weak, and that made her turn pink. Then, knowing she had turned pink, nervousness seized her and she became very white.

Christobel was looking at her, wondering, surprise visible in her honest eyes.

"I want Mum to keep it," said Adrian, "why shouldn't she? It's a mystery how it got there. It may have been stuck in that tuft for years. The person who owned it may be dead."

"Oh no, we must hand it over to the Police," said Mrs. Romilly. There was a general cry of "oh Mother!" as she took the brooch back again into her hand, and examined h even more critically. In that moment a thought struck her, and she looked up at her eager family.

"Crow dear--why shouldn't it be Auntie A's? Why, of course, my dear children--why not? Consider the letters, 'A' and 'A' entwined--it no doubt stands for Adelaide Ashington. After all, it is rather rare to have two 'A's' for your initials."

"But, Mummy, the crown----" suggested Crow.

"Coronet? Why not? Miss Ashington and Lady Shard are daughters of Lord Stilborough. They might have a coronet in a jewel, I daresay--just for ornament. Crow, isn't Lady Shard's name 'Amelia'?"

Christobel said it was, also suggested that Mollie's name was Amelia Mary.

"Oh well, then," went on Mrs. Romilly, "I'm afraid, Addie dear, there isn't much mystery.

"But look here, Mother," Adrian interrupted eagerly, for he disapproved strongly of this explanation, "I say--you're not going to make me believe that either Lady Shard or Auntie A. wandered about the Beak cliff!"

"Oh no, not they, of course. But don't you see, Addie, the thing might have been dropped and picked up by someone who wasn't honest. It may even have been stolen. You know how utterly vague they both are, dear souls, they'll forget and never miss it. Then the person who had it might have gone on the cliff front--some servant--man-servant from London, say--chauffeurs, anybody--I propose that someone goes up to Crown Hill and hands it over to Auntie A. It is most certainly theirs."

"Once it gets into Miss Ashington's hands no one will see it again," said Pamela desperately.

"That sounds rather an awkward remark," commented Adrian, as they all took their places round the table.

"I don't mean she'll steal it," explained Pam, very hot and worried, "but what's the good of talking; everybody knows her. Whether it is hers or not she'll forget Mother has sent it to her, and things will drift vaguely."

"What would you do then?" asked Crow.

"Oh, give it to the Police, and tell them to advertise it. Then the real owner will claim it."

So said Pamela in the despairing hope of giving a chance to the Countess, who would claim, of course, through Sir Marmaduke, if she did not wish to appear in the matter.

Adrian agreed with her, quite unexpectedly, for which she felt grateful.

"There's a lot of sense in Pam's notion, Mother," he said, "Auntie A. is no more and no less than the White Queen in _Alice Through the Looking-glass_--with just as much sense. She's an old dear, we all know--but she'll give the thing to Charles to eat as soon as not; or hand it to a beggar in mistake for sixpence! She doesn't know the difference between her own hat and a church hassock."

"_Darling_," expostulated Mrs. Romilly, "is it as bad as that?"

"Well, Mum--you know Auntie A. I vote for the Police Station at Ramsworthy. Let me take it there."

"I think we ought to try Crown Hill first," said his mother, quietly persistent, as always, now the idea had once lodged in her brain. "Who'll go?"

A wild impulse rushed into Pamela's brain. Should she offer to take it, and return it to its rightful owner, trusting to the fact that Miss Ashington would never remember whether she had received it or not? But the thought occurred only to be rejected. It wouldn't do at all. It would be horrid, and after all, suppose the brooch was given to Auntie A., all she had to do was to tell the Countess, who could write to Sir Marmaduke Shard and explain that the strange jewel was hers. That was simple enough.

When the party dispersed after breakfast Pamela felt better. The path seemed less encumbered. She decided to write to the Countess and to take the letter herself and leave it at the gate. Miss Chance and Hughie conveyed the precious parcel to Crown Hill with a letter from Mrs. Romilly, and the other two went off to the bay to overhaul _Messenger_ for a grand clean up and polish.

After several attempts Pamela wrote a note that satisfied her.

"Your safety pin brooch has been found on the Beak cliff and sent to Miss Adelaide Ashington at Crown Hill. Because the initials are 'A.A.' my mother thinks it must be hers or Lady Shard's. If you apply to them, no doubt you can get it back.--P".

Having read this once or twice and finding it met the case, Pamela folded the note neatly, sealed it with her own little silver seal, and went out. She did not go straight up the road to Woodrising, but across the valley, round through Crown Hill park, into the woods at the inland end, and down the hill from the station.