mother’s attention to it. 
"Oh, I expect they’ve got some wind even if we haven’t," said Mrs. Romilly; "I shan’t worry, and, Pam dear, tea at half-past four, for you and me--and after that will you go up to Clawtol and get some eggs from Mrs. Ensor? A dozen or two dozen even--we eat such a lot now Addie has taken to demanding hard-boiled ones for the yacht. If I can’t get enough from Clawtol, we must try the Badgers at Champles tomorrow or next day." 
Pamela did not mind in the least. She had a plan in fact. Why not come back by Woodrising? A basket of eggs would prove her business. She need not do anything--at the same time she felt she could not rest till she obtained some knowledge of her "double". Having settled that the girl did not exist, she had been shaken out of that security by Christobel’s surprising questions and confusion of her identity. It was not possible to pass it over. Fate had sent her another free day, clear of "family"; she must have one more attempt at Woodrising. 
She and her mother followed the thought of Messenger’s return with interest. 
"If there had been a good wind they might have reached the lighthouse by now," said Pamela, spreading her bread and butter with a thankful heart, "as it is----" 
"What? ’As it is’" asked Mrs. Romilly. 
"Well, Mummy dear, no wind. What can they do? They’ll be coming down the estuary about now--perhaps crossing the bar. Miss Chance won’t feel the swell till they get really out--a good way." 
"Are they bound to feel the swell?" 
"Mummy, they are. I can assure you it’s the sort of heaving that makes one try hard not to think of bacon grease. If you do, you’re sorry." 
"Poor Miss Chance," said Mrs. Romilly, and laughed. 
Pamela looked at her with eyes that were grey-green sometimes they were blue, sometimes grey it depended on the sky and the atmosphere. 
"I’m rather afraid," she remarked, "that a bit of bad luck is coming to those poor ones. There is a mist. You know how it begins. Bits of ragged chiffon seem to float past one, going nowhere in particular. There isn’t a breath of air, and yet a cold kind of draught has arrived." 
"I am sorry," said Mrs. Romilly, with feeling, "but a fog won’t prevent their getting home. If they keep close in, the cliffs are so very obvious." 
Pamela made no comment on this; she simply said it certainly would not prevent her walk to Clawtol for the eggs, while through her mind ran the idea that nothing could be better than a good thick white mist--such as they got in perfection at Bell Bay--for her mystery hunting expedition. 
She kissed her mother and went, feeling joyous and independent. Her plan was cut and dried, so to speak, all settled--and when plans are like that they are very apt to turn topsy-turvy, and land people where they least expected to be. 

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