would."  
"Yes," agreed Pamela thoughtfully, "if I go again I will. Well, anyway I had to hide, because two women came from the house and went to the end of the garden. One was Mrs. Trewby--looking as yellow as marmalade--and the other was that maid Baker. Lady Shard had her for years, and she married the London butler. Her name is Mrs. Chipman now. Do you remember her, Midget?"  
"She came to tea with Mrs. Jeep when she was dressed in black. I hated her," said Hughie, "she says silly things to people about being mischievous. She calls it ’mischeevious’. She doesn’t understand anything."  
"She’d talk the hind leg off a donkey," said Pamela with contempt. "I should think the butler was very thankful when he died and could get away from her voice--it clacks. I couldn’t remember her at first, and I was so busy remembering that I forgot to notice what she said--it was all about people, though--you know how that kind of person talks. They went back past me to the house, and then the Chipman female began shouting for her dog, and I was so fearfully afraid of being caught that I fled along the path over the wall and came home."  
"How did you know she was calling the dog?" asked Hughie, opening the paper bag and looking into it with interest. "How do you know she wasn’t calling the other girl?"  
"Couldn’t have been; she called ’Countess, Countess, Countess’, just how people call dogs, and that sort of person usually call dogs by that kind of name; and the dogs are usually big, fluffy ones which never do what they’re told. Oh, it was a dog right enough, I’m sure. Well, that’s all. It isn’t a very bright prospect is it, Midget?"  
"Not very," allowed Hughie; "what time is it, Pam?"  
Pamela, consulting a wristlet watch, said it was about twelve. It must be, she concluded, because her watch was a quarter to one. "I calculate it to be over half an hour fast towards the end of the week," she told him, "then I begin fresh on Sundays. It’s a bother, because you forget and are sure to be late for breakfast. However, it can’t be helped."  
"Don’t tell anybody I’m here," Hughie requested, finishing the chocolate and smoothing out the bag. Paper bags came in usefully at times.  
"Not Mother, do you mean? She may ask."  
"I don’t mind her, but not the others, Pam. It’s impossible to sew properly when people come bothering about and asking questions."  
Pamela promised, and departed light-footed.  
In the corridor she met her mother, who promptly asked where was her youngest son.  
"He’s all right, Mummy--sewing, in the cave," said Pamela, "and he doesn’t want anyone to know."  
"All right. _I_ shan’t tell," said Mrs. Romilly, smiling. Then she asked about the yawl, and the plans of the older pair about fetching her from Salterne.  
Pamela related what she knew, 

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