“Pray, do you want anything?  I am the wife of the manager.”

“Yes, ma’am.  I want a little information—­at least, there’s another that does.  Did you ever happen to hear of a Mr. Heigham?”

“Mr. Heigham?  Indeed, yes; I know him well.  He was here a few minutes since.”

“Then perhaps, ma’am, you can tell me if he is married to a Mrs. Carr that lives on this island?”

“Not that I know of,” she answered, with a little smile; “but there is a good deal of talk about them—­people say that, though they are not married, they ought to be, you know.”

“That’s the best bit of news I have heard for many a day.  As for the talk, I don’t pay no manner of heed to that.  If he ain’t married to her, he won’t marry her now, I’ll go bail.  Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

At that moment they were interrupted by the entrance of a little ragged boy into the hall, who timidly held out a card to the lady to whom Pigott was talking.

“Do you want to find Mr. Heigham?” she said.  “Because if so, this boy will show you where he is.  He has sent here for a paper that he left.  I found it on the verandah just now, and wondered what it was.  Perhaps you would take it to him if you go.  I don’t like trusting this boy—­as likely as not he will lose it.”

“That will just suit.  Just you tell the boy to wait while I fetch my young lady, and we will go with him.  Is this the paper?  And in her writing, too!  Well, I never!  There, I’ll be back in no time.”

Pigott went upstairs far too rapidly for a person of her size and years, with the result that when she reached their room, where Angela was waiting half dead with suspense, she could only gasp.

“Well,” said Angela, “be quick and tell me.”

“Oh, Lord! them stairs!” gasped Pigott.

“For pity’s sake, tell me the worst!”

“Now, miss, do give a body time, and don’t be a fool—­begging pardon for——­”

“Oh, Pigott, you are torturing me!”

“Well, miss, you muddle me so—­but I am coming to it.  I went down them dratted stairs, and there I see a wonderful nice-looking party with a baby.”

“For God’s sake tell me—­is Arthur married?”

“Why, no, dearie—­of course not.  I was just a-going to say——­”

But whatever valuable remark Pigott was going to make was lost to the world for ever, for Angela flung her arms round her neck and began kissing her.

“Oh, oh! thank God—­thank God!  Oh, oh, oh!”

Whereupon Pigott, being a very sensible person, took her by the shoulders and tried to shake her, but it was no joke shaking a person of her height.  Angela stood firm, and Pigott oscillated—­that was the only visible result.

“Now, then, miss,” she said, giving up the shaking as a bad job, “no highstrikes, if you please.  Just you put on your hat and come for a bit of a walk in this queer place with me.  I haven’t brought you up by hand this two-and-twenty year or thereabouts, to see you go off in highstrikes, like a housemaid as has seen a ghost.”