“She’s not above an affair with him,” was her hot, inward lament.  She was mightily relieved, however, when the others tranquilly followed her across the road, and took up a new position under the substitute clump of trees.

The Enemy gave no sign of interest in these proceedings.  If he was conscious of being watched by these curious exiles, he was not in the least annoyed.  He did not change his position of indolence, nor did he puff any more fretfully at his cigarette.  Instead, his eyes were bent lazily upon the white avenue, his thoughts apparently far away from the view ahead.  He came out of his lassitude long enough to roll and light a fresh cigarette and to don his wide madras helmet.

Suddenly he looked to the right and then arose with some show of alacrity.  Three men were approaching by the path which led down from the far-away stables.  Browne recognised the dark-skinned men as servants in the chateau—­the major-domo, the chef, and the master of the stables.

“Lord Deppingham must have sent them down to pitch him over the wall,” he said, with an excited grin.

“Impossible!  My husband is hunting for sapphires in the ravine back of—­” She did not complete the sentence.

The Enemy was greeting the statuesque natives with a friendliness that upset all calculations.  It was evident that the meeting was prearranged.  There was no attempt at secrecy; the conference, whatever its portent, had the merit of being quite above-board.  In the end, the tall solicitor, lifting his helmet with a gesture so significant that it left no room for speculation, turned and sauntered through the broad gateway and out into the forest road.  The three servants returned as they had come, by way of the bridle path along the wall.

“The nerve of him!” exclaimed Browne.  “That graceful attention was meant for us.”

“He is like the polite robber who first beats you to death and then says thank you for the purse,” said Lady Deppingham.  “What a strange proceeding, Mr. Browne.  Can you imagine what it means?”

“Mischief of some sort, I’ll be bound.  I admire his nerve in holding the confab under our very noses.  I’ll have Britt interview those fellows at once.  Our kitchen, our stable and our domestic discipline are threatened.”

They hastened to the chateau, and regaled the resourceful Britt with the disquieting news.

“I’ll have it out of ’em in a minute,” he said confidently.  “Where’s Saunders?  Where’s Miss Pelham?  Confound the girl, she’s never around when I want her these days.  Hay, you!” to a servant.  “Send Miss Pelham to me.  The one in pink, understand?  Golden-haired one.  Yes, yes, that’s right:  the one who jiggles her fingers.  Tell her to hurry.”

But Miss Pelham was off in the wood, self-charged with the arousing of Mr. Saunders; an hour passed before she could be found and brought into the light of Mr. Britt’s reflections.  If her pert nose was capable of elevating itself in silent disdain, Mr. Saunders was not able to emulate its example.  He was not so dazzled by the sunshine of her sprightly recitals but that he could look sheep-faced in the afterglow of Britt’s scorn.