Her comrade wondered.  “In what?”

“I don’t know.  Something bad.  As I tell you, something was found.”

The girl stared.  “Well?”

“It would have been very bad for him.  But, she helped him some way—­she recovered it, got hold of it.  It’s even said she stole it!”

Our young woman considered afresh.  “Why it was what was found that precisely saved him.”

Mrs. Jordan, however, was positive.  “I beg your pardon.  I happen to know.”

Her disciple faltered but an instant.  “Do you mean through Mr. Drake?  Do they tell him these things?”

“A good servant,” said Mrs. Jordan, now thoroughly superior and proportionately sententious, “doesn’t need to be told!  Her ladyship saved—­as a woman so often saves!—­the man she loves.”

This time our heroine took longer to recover herself, but she found a voice at last.  “Ah well—­of course I don’t know!  The great thing was that he got off.  They seem then, in a manner,” she added, “to have done a great deal for each other.”

“Well, it’s she that has done most.  She has him tight.”

“I see, I see.  Good-bye.”  The women had already embraced, and this was not repeated; but Mrs. Jordan went down with her guest to the door of the house.  Here again the younger lingered, reverting, though three or four other remarks had on the way passed between them, to Captain Everard and Lady Bradeen.  “Did you mean just now that if she hadn’t saved him, as you call it, she wouldn’t hold him so tight?”

“Well, I dare say.”  Mrs. Jordan, on the doorstep, smiled with a reflexion that had come to her; she took one of her big bites of the brown gloom.  “Men always dislike one when they’ve done one an injury.”

“But what injury had he done her?”

“The one I’ve mentioned.  He must marry her, you know.”

“And didn’t he want to?”

“Not before.”

“Not before she recovered the telegram?”

Mrs. Jordan was pulled up a little.  “Was it a telegram?”

The girl hesitated.  “I thought you said so.  I mean whatever it was.”

“Yes, whatever it was, I don’t think she saw that.”

“So she just nailed him?”

“She just nailed him.”  The departing friend was now at the bottom of the little flight of steps; the other was at the top, with a certain thickness of fog.  “And when am I to think of you in your little home?—­next month?” asked the voice from the top.

“At the very latest.  And when am I to think of you in yours?”

“Oh even sooner.  I feel, after so much talk with you about it, as if I were already there!” Then “Good-bye!” came out of the fog.