Part 6

They ran on--down hill always, passed the long line of wall, and just as the overhanging shrubs and sheltering height of Fuchsia Cottage hill-side showed a big black patch on the right hand, the moon suddenly appeared again, and everything around--road, hedges, bushes, and towering steep above cottage and church--came out again as clear as a painted scene.

Adrian and Christobel both looked ahead down the road. It was empty. Not a soul in sight.

"Where's she gone to?" said Christobel, stopping.

"Don't ask me, my good girl," Adrian was cross, unquestionably, "I suppose she's up to some trick."

Such a suggestion did not please Crow.

"You shouldn't talk like that, Addie," she expostulated. "Pam doesn't play 'tricks'. She isn't that sort of girl. None of us are. There may be something up we don't know about that sent her up to Folly Ho. Perhaps Mother wanted a message taken to Timothy Batt--one never knows! The thing I don't understand is, how she's managed to disappear, considering the road is about as straight as a ruler, and the moonlight is bang on it, and there's only one way home."

Adrian said nothing; in silence, and at a quick walk they arrived opposite the shaded gate of Fuchsia Cottage. Here Christobel stopped again. "She can't have sunk through the earth, Addie, and she wouldn't have jumped the hedge! I believe she went in here. Mother may have given her a message to the Little Pilgrim--why not?"

"Why not, of course!" echoed Adrian dryly. "The sort of thing Mother would do--considering it's just on ten o'clock."

There was so much truth in this, that Christobel did not make any reply to it--she said:

"I'm just going to ask," and opened the gate.

They went up the path, mounted three short flights of brick steps that cut the three little terraces, and found themselves at a deep porch half buried in roses. Apparently Miss Lasarge heard them coming, for she appeared on the threshold of the pretty sitting-room-hall.

"This _is_ nice, dear children," she said in the eager sweet voice that was one of her attractions, "come into the dining-room--the cocoa is just ready."

That was the cottage. A good-sized sitting-room hall with windows looking two ways, and a cosy little dining-room. Three bedrooms above. There was also the kitchen, where reigned Lizzie Sprot, a sturdy west-country young woman, who had lived eleven years with Miss Anne--from the age of seventeen. Lizzie Sprot had gone to bed, she always went when she had taken in the cocoa, and left Miss Anne to sit up and write letters as a rule.

"Is Pam here?" asked Christobel, as they followed the slim, grey figure into the dining-room, yet even as she asked the question she felt instinctively it was a foolish one.

"Is who here, dear? Sit down now, both of you--that's right. Two cups from the corner cupboard, please, Crow--that is delightful. Now, what is it you were asking--something about Pam?"

Christobel asked again. Adrian said nothing, except to corroborate his sister's story.

"So you think you saw Pamela come down the Folly Ho turn, and go--towards home?"

Now Miss Lasarge said this, a mere repetition of what she had just been told, in rather an uncertain tone.

Adrian said afterwards, that anyone could see she thought it was objectionable, but did not like to say so.

Christobel looked a bit anxious, but went straight to the point with the sincerity that was part of her sterling character.

"We don't _think_, Little Pilgrim, we know. The moon was bright, and the road clear as day. Addie whistled to her, and she looked round. We saw her look over her shoulder at us, but instead of stopping she only ran faster."

"Oh, that doesn't sound like Pam," murmured Miss Anne.

"But it _was_ Pam," asserted Crow.

"Don't you think you might easily have mistaken some other girl for Pamela, dear? Moonlight is very deceptive--and you said that a cloud came directly after and obscured your vision. Really, I can't help feeling----"

"It was Pamela right enough, Miss Anne," said Adrian firmly; "she was as plain as a hayrick, pig-tail and all. No other girl in Bell Bay has hair like Pamela. Besides, when it comes to that, what other girls are there about? Mollie Shard is not here now, and if she were, she isn't the least like Pam."

There was a pause. Christobel set her cup on the table and half rose.

"You needn't go for a few minutes," suggested Miss Anne, "Mother won't be anxious. She got your wire, I know, because I was there when it came."

Christobel asked if Mrs. Romilly was anxious during the thunderstorm; and recounted their adventure in a few words--as matter of fact, the yawl affair had been driven out of her mind by this business about Pamela.

"It was a horrid storm here," said Miss Lasarge, apparently pleased to talk about something else, "terribly noisy, and very heavy rain. But I understood that your mother wasn't really anxious. She hoped you were on shore--then it came fine--so lovely, too--I never saw anything like the colours--land and sea."

Christobel stood up to go. She apologized again for calling in at such an hour.

"We only just thought there was a chance of Pam--having come in with a message----"

"I'm _sure_ you'll find it was all right, dear Crow," said Miss Lasarge, kissing her; "I--I expect it was somebody else. You'll find Pam is in bed and asleep, unless she is sitting with your mother."

"No doubt we shall find Pam is in bed, and she'll tell us she's asleep," said Adrian, as they went out through the gate.

"Oh, don't, Addie," begged Christobel, "I'm sure there's an explanation."

Silence ensued, then she continued:

"Didn't you think Miss Anne was a tiny bit--well--confused? I thought so."

"_I_ thought she believed it was Pamela, but tried not to believe it, and was hunting round for excuses anyway. She certainly seemed a bit uncomfortable--besides, it's sheer rubbish to tell us it might be somebody else. She knows and we know that there isn't anybody else. But she's an awfully kind person--in fact, she's a regular little saint, she can't bear to think anybody is wrong."

As they were opening the big gates at the end of the drive, Christobel asked:

"Shall we tell Mother? What _ought_ we to do about it?"

"You mean about seeing Pam?"

"Yes. Suppose we find Mother knows nothing and is secure and comfortable as usual, and that Pam is up in her room. Well, what ought we to do?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Adrian irritably, "it's sickening. One can't go clacking to Mother about Pam--it simply isn't done," he shut the gates with a vicious snap.

"That's what I thought," Crow was relieved, "let's wait and see what Pam says--I'll go and ask her to-night."

"Just as you like," agreed Adrian indifferently, and they went in.

Mrs. Romilly was reading the paper; she was delighted to see them, and eager to hear all details. She said she had not been anxious, because Pam told her they proposed landing if the weather was bad. At this point Adrian turned his head discreetly to conceal a smile. When the storm passed she had been quite happy; and, when the telegram came, had considered it all a most wise arrangement.

"Your hair looks so nice, darling," she said, looking approvingly at Adrian's sleek head.

Pleading sleepiness the two went off to bed, and on the landing upstairs Christobel said: "Wait a minute," and slipped down to Pamela's room at the end.

She knocked. There was no answer, so she opened the door gingerly, and put her head into the opening. A long heap in the bed stirred, and turned over with a jerk.

"Hullo, who is it; what do you want, Hughie?" demanded Pamela in the slurring tones of one but half awake.

"It's not Hughie--it's Crow. I just peeped in to see if you were awake," said Christobel, not at all pleased with herself, because she felt a wee bit mean.

"Oh, you're back. That's all right. I'm so glad. Did you have a jolly time?"

"Awfully jolly--after the thunder cleared," said Crow.

"Tell me about it to-morrow. Good-night, Crow," murmured Pamela sleepily, and relapsed into slumber.

In the passage Christobel whispered to Adrian:

"She was sound asleep--_sound_. I woke her, but she was only half awake."

Adrian whistled softly, and departed to his room without comment.

*CHAPTER VII*

*Confidences in "the Cave"*

A journey to Salterne next day was out of the question, because the weather had taken the bit between its teeth and was behaving badly. This happens so often after a thunderstorm that nobody was surprised; everyone simply looked out for something to do. Adrian plunged with vigour into a brief spell of mowing. It seemed wise to grapple with the rapidly growing grass while there was nothing better on hand. Christobel, feeling uneasy, sought an opportunity for private conversation with her sister. She was uneasy, because she believed it was somehow all right--though it looked all wrong--and she didn't know how to begin.

Pamela was alone in the library, sitting in the biggest leather chair after a style of her own, that is, inside the chair with her long slim legs hanging over the arm, and her knees forming a satisfactory rest for the inevitable book.

Christobel entered on this scene of peaceful comfort with a direct question, after her way:

"Oh, Pam, there you are. I rather wanted to ask you something."

She shut the door, and came forward to take a seat on the edge of the writing-table, near the big chair.

Pamela glanced at her and detected mystery. She did not say so, though, but let her gaze rest again on the interesting page and murmured:

"All right. Fire away."

"You don't mind my asking, Pam, but did Mother send you out--send you anywhere--last night?"

The inquiry was made awkwardly. Crow flushed rather pink.

"How do you mean?"

Pamela's intent blue gaze was raised, and she looked curiously at her sister's face.

"How do you mean 'send me out', Crow?"

"Well, is there any mystery about it?"

"About what?"

"About you being out last evening?"

Pamela remained silent for quite a minute; she was reviewing swiftly in her mind what the time was when she had returned from Woodrising--after her ineffective search-visit. Eight o'clock! She was back before eight, of course, because supper was timed for eight and she was in--with a brief period for dressing.

After that pause she answered:

"I don't know what you are driving at, my dear Crow."

But of course Christobel had noticed the hesitation. It made her feel rather stronger.

"Do you mind telling me when you did come in, Pam? I ask for a reason."

"Well, if you seriously want to know," answered the younger girl rather stiffly, "I was in just in time to change for supper--and supper was at eight o'clock--later than usual. That was because Mum had put the food back thinking you and Addie would be home."

"Ten to _eight_?"

"Well, why not? It was nearly dark, but the moon had begun--besides, we'd been mewed up indoors an awful lot with the rain."

Pamela was throwing out little feelers of excuse--as it were--for her wanderings round Woodrising, in case she had been seen. Somebody had told Christobel something, she believed firmly, and her defensive instinct made her rather stiff.

"Well, _I_ was meaning about ten minutes to _ten_--not eight," said the elder girl.

They looked at each other searchingly.

"I was in bed before that," said Pamela. "I don't know the least what you are talking about, Crow, but you seem to have a lively maggot in your brain about me."

"It isn't anything in my brain--it's a question of the eyesight of two people."

"Who's the other person?"

"Addie. We both saw you----"

"Oh dear," ejaculated Pamela in an exasperated voice, "do you mean to say you think you saw me out of doors just before ten o'clock, because you may as well disabuse your mind of the idea at once. Addie doesn't count, he leaps to conclusions. He'd say the Little Pilgrim was me for two pins, and believe it if he was in an imaginative mood. Well, you did _not_ see me, Crow."

"My dear girl, I'm awfully sorry you feel vexed about it."

"Wouldn't you be vexed, if people practically told you you were telling lies," said Pamela, fingering the pages of her book with unsettled fingers.

"I don't. I assure you I don't," said Christobel urgently "but please do look at our side of the question. Now listen, Pam. We got in to Five Trees about 9.25, we came straight along with a moon as bright as day, and just before we came to Folly Ho corner we heard some one running. _I_ thought it sounded like a girl--unless it was a boy in running shoes--the feet were so light. Of course we were interested--down past the little grass patch at the crossroad came _you_----"

Pamela made a gesture of speaking.

"All right, then," went on Crow, "not you--a girl so exactly like you that there was no difference. She had a dark skirt and jumper--like yours--it was most certainly blue--lighter stockings and shoes--I mean not black. She had no hat on, and a heavy tail of plaited hair hanging down. As she ran I saw it swing--like yours does. Now, are you surprised we thought it was you?"

"What did you do?" asked Pamela.

"Simply stared. Then Addie gave a whistle shriek, fearfully loud. She stopped and looked over her shoulder, then she ran on. Honestly I admit we were savage. Just consider, Pam; it appeared to be you beyond question, and we naturally concluded you were just out for the fun of it, and didn't want us to see you. Of course it looked as though you didn't mean to stop on purpose."

"Funny," allowed Pamela in a milder tone, "well, what did you do next? I suppose you saw where this very surprising girl went to?"

Christobel felt this was the weak part of her story, but she told it conscientiously.

"I see. So the girl was swallowed up by the cloud! Are you sure you ever saw her at all, Crow?"

"Never was so sure of a thing in my life," declared Christobel, slipping off the table edge, and going to the window-seat, where she took a more comfortable seat, "we saw the girl. Who she is, I don't pretend to say, as you say she is not you. It was just in that bit of road outside Woodrising that we lost sight of her. Thinking she was surely you I made Addie go into Fuchsia Cottage and ask Miss Lasarge."

"Why--on earth?" demanded Pamela, with a little frown of annoyance, as she shut her book smartly.

"Why? Because I thought you'd gone in there. It was the only way to account for your disappearance."

"For _hers_, you mean."

"Yes; of course. Only, remember we were certain it was you then."

"What did the Little Pilgrim say?" asked Pamela, with an accession of interest, as she pulled herself up in the chair, swinging her slim feet rather restlessly.

"Oh, nothing much. She just listened, and said you weren't there, and you hadn't been, and she was sure it couldn't be you--that was all. We thought she seemed rather nervous--rather sort of hesitating--but it might have been our fancy. You see, Pam, I was so sure it couldn't be anyone but you, that I had a feeling the Little Pilgrim thought it was, but meant to hold her tongue. She's such a little angel of kindness she'd always shield anybody she thought might be risking a fuss."

"I daresay," allowed Pamela in a non-committal way; then she added, "well, are you satisfied now, Crow? I can only tell you again that I was in bed--at that time."

"My dear old girl, if you say you were not the person we saw, there's an end," answered Christobel warmly, yet even as she spoke she was faintly uneasy--Pamela was keeping something back. She was sure. However, there was no more to be said. She changed the subject.

"Addie's bathing," she said, "he loves bathing in the rain, and at the present moment it is pouring anchors and marlinespikes--where's Hughie?"

Pamela was just going to say where she thought Hughie was, but changed the information to a vague:

"Oh--somewhere. You're not going to fetch the yawl back to-day then, Crow?"

Christobel said the tide would serve much better in the afternoon a bit later. It could be done now, but they would have to be home by five o'clock, or they'd have the whole weight of the ebb against them.

"Better to have an hour or so to spare," she added cheerfully and went out.

Pamela remained sitting in her nest, swinging her feet and thinking--thinking. "Then there was something in Mollie's and Hughie's accusation." She had come away yesterday from her venture at Woodrising persuaded that the whole thing was "tosh"--that Sir Marmaduke had kindly given a lift to Mrs. Chipman for old time's sake--being in the neighbourhood himself, perhaps for business reasons. It was so natural that Mrs. Chipman should pay a visit to Mrs. Trewby, for they were acquaintances of old days.

Last night, before she fell asleep, she felt assured that both Mollie and Hughie had made a mistake somehow--unlikely as it seemed. Now, the whole thing was awake again, and positively demanding attention. Poor Pamela felt the least bit gloomy about it; first, because she had read somewhere that if a person has a "double" in the world they are sure to die promptly; secondly, because she was becoming a butt for false accusations on all sides. She felt instinctively that Crow, her best friend, was a little suspicious, and Addie, of course, would be frankly sceptical. Only Hughie believed her. Hughie was a very wise person, not to be despised as a partner in difficulty.

She slipped to her feet, and left the room, ran upstairs, and stood quietly listening at the top of the back stairs. No one was about. The voice of Mrs. Jeep conversing profoundly with Keziah, the house parlour-maid, was the only sound audible. The wide front stairs mounted from the hall into the long corridor, and were not used by servants. The backstairs came up from the kitchen passage to a lobby shut off by a green baize door, and went on upwards to the attics, which were large and charming rooms, with many cupboards, and the most perfect views in the house, out of quaint dormer windows.

There were four at least and wide passage space also.

Mrs. Jeep owned one; Keziah and Patty Ingles the between-maid shared another. One was a spare room for chance servant visitors, and the end one over Pamela's and Hughie's rooms was what is called a "box" room. Here was "luggage"--big, old-fashioned trunks, leather portmanteaux, large hat boxes. Neat piles of cardboard boxes--the sort that drapers and dressmakers send out--all sizes, and tidy stacks of brown paper--sacking--cords--all the odds and ends necessary for packing of any kind. There were chairs with burst cane seats, and baths needing paint, cans that leaked, and baskets damaged in various ways--these had waited through the war to be mended, and waited still for workers; Mrs. Romilly was a most methodical, tidy person and detested waste.

Besides all this was the old nursery property of "dressing-up" chests--clothes for charades in winter--a rocking-horse, and the dolls' houses; the thousand-and-one things that belong to a family of children.

Hughie loved it all with a deep and faithful love. Secretly he played with the dolls' houses, and set the small china-headed dolls round the loaded tables for their silent meals with affectionate care. Pamela knew all about these matters, but she was far too loyal to betray the secret.

When she came into this big chamber of treasure trove she stood still and looked round. The fact that nobody was visible did not convince her that nobody was there.

"Hullo!" she said in a low voice.

"Hullo!" returned a small voice in an absorbed tone.

Pamela crossed the room and looked over a barricade of lumber. At first sight it seemed that a heavy oak dower chest, topped by a pile of boxes, was set against the wall. It was not. Between its bulk and the wall of the attic there existed a narrow space--so narrow that it would not appear possible as a retiring place even for the smallest boy.

Pamela looked over--as has been stated--and dropped a small paper bag.

"I brought you some chocolates," she said.

"Thanks," murmured Hughie in a slow drawl. Squeezed between the chest and the wall he was absorbed in most intricate stitchery. On his knee was set a cardboard box full of bits and scraps--both white and coloured--wee spars, small lengths of catgut, bits of fine wire. Also, sitting very upright, two neatly smiling dolls, with bran-stuffed bodies and china heads, dolls about three inches long--the large kind held no attractions for Hughie.

"How are you getting on, Midget?" asked Pamela with sympathy.

"It's rather trying," said the dressmaker, "their arm-sleeves fray out of the holes, and the button-holes are simply fearful. But they must have the things."

"They'll look jolly nice when they are finished," said Pamela, "can't I help you?"

Hughie rejected help.

"I've made a white ensign for the new boat," he said, nodding towards the tiny flag that lay finished on the box-top.

"Ripping!" exclaimed Pamela, picking up the bit of work. It was most beautifully made. Seeing her undoubted admiration Hughie fished out of his coloured heap a fine cord to which were attached a succession of wonderful little flags and burgees in many colours and designs.

"Signal halyards," he said, "it took me weeks--and months. It's the whole code."

"Hughie, you are rather surprising," said Pamela, as she examined the extraordinary result of skill and patience. Then she pushed the boxes a little to one side and seated herself on the corner of the oak chest.

"I rather wanted to tell you something," she began.

"I know," said Hughie, adding as she paused in surprise, "is it about the pig-tail girl?"

Pamela told him what had happened, and what Christobel had asked her.

Hughie made no comment.

"I wish they hadn't gone to Fuchsia Cottage and asked Miss Anne about it," went on Pamela thoughtfully, "the more people who are dragged into it, the more bother it will be to----"

"To what?" inquired Hughie, without looking up.

"Well, I was going to say--to find out. Then I remembered that probably there isn't anything to find out. I mean, if there is a girl she is probably a relation of Mrs. Trewby's."

"I suppose you think she lives at Woodrising?" suggested Hughie cautiously.

"Crow said she disappeared just outside that wall--when a cloud made it dark. _They_ thought she'd run on into Fuchsia Cottage gate--you see."

"I know. It was the other gate more likely," said Hughie in a deliberate manner.

"Well, I daresay. I don't see where else she can be living. But what I mean is, Hughie, that it's not exciting. I thought I'd just try and find tracks--or something definite--so I went all round Woodrising yesterday evening. One can't get in; besides, I hadn't the cheek to go and ring at the gate-bell and say 'Have you a girl like me anywhere about?' I couldn't do it, so I just----"

"Scouted," suggested Hughie, as he threaded a fine needle with silk with a view to button-holes, "you got it out of your Scout book."

Pamela coloured faintly.

"I rather tried to do as they say in the Rules, but there weren't any tracks outside. Then I got over the end wall; there was a ladder against it outside, and I'm perfectly certain Peter Cherry uses it for a short cut. Inside there was a manure heap--not a smelly one--straw chiefly for marrows--so there was a good place to jump into. The garden was appallingly wet; and you never saw anything like the bushes, Midget--one mass. I saw Peter's bootmarks as plain as a house--and then I found nice narrow shoes like mine, and made sure I'd got a clue, but it occurred to me that they might easily be my own feet! I'd been going up and down, and in and out--such a lot of paths and all so much alike----"

"Next time I'd put a trail of pebbles if I were you," suggested Hughie.

"You mean like Hop-of-my-thumb did, when he found the birds ate his bread-crumbs?"