“She is, I presume, by now, the Countess Cantemir—­made so by an Abbe at the monastery.”

Pomphrey was a-road; the clatter of bit and spur brought a smile to Constance’ face, and she cried forth with all the venom in her poor, foul being: 

“Two mad fools,—­both gone crazy over a convent wench, who is now my Lady Cantemir—­my cousin,—­the wife of a fortune hunter!” She fled within doors like one pursued and stopped not until she reached her own chamber.

Midnight approached phantom-like, and as stealthily Lady Constance crept to the postern door.  Behind her fell a shadow athwart the floor, a shadow that was not hers but of one that moved as warily.  She listened as she held the door ajar, fearing to look back.  As she thrust the door wide, a figure from without moved toward her.

“Who is there?” she whispered.

“Monmouth!” was the answer; and out she stepped, well pleased to be free from that shadow she felt was pursuing her.  Her hand was immediately taken and eager eyes sought the ring.  It was hardly visible, so dense was the shadow of the trees.

“Come this way, Lady Penwick,” came in a voice that was not that of Monmouth’s, which had sounded so much like music to her a few, short hours before, or that had spoken the word “Monmouth” even that moment.  She, drawing back in her uncertainty, was captured by strong arms, a hood was thrown over her head, and she was lifted and carried in hot haste to a chaise, and helped therein without much formality.  As her escort leapt in behind her, there swept in the other door another figure, also intent upon being accommodated by a seat in a London equipage; and before any one was aware of a de trop comrade, the doors were shut with a bang and horses started at a gallop.  Under cover of the noise her ladyship’s vizor was lifted and she, half smothered, drew breath and stared about her in the darkness.

“Thou didst bring thy servant with thee, Lady?”

“Who doth dare inveigle me from the protection of my cousin, Lord Cedric?”

“I, my lady; a simple gentleman of his Grace of Monmouth’s suite,—­and at his order.”

“Ah—­” ’twas long drawn and somewhat smacked of satisfaction.  “Who is this female?”

“Is she not thine?”

“Nay, not mine.  She doth play the hocus,” said her ladyship.

“Who art thou, then, woman; how came yonder door to pamper thy whim?” The surprised guardsman rapped smartly upon the window, then pulling it up leant out and asked for a torch.  As there were none a-light, he waited some moments; as he did so, there came an answer from the figure opposite,—­

“I am Mistress Penwick’s waiting-woman.”  The answer was satisfactory to the guard.

“’Tis Janet, as I live,” interrupted Lady Constance.  She was not sorry to have a companion of her own sex, and Janet would make herself generally useful, if the ride was long and her ladyship should fall ill, as she was certain to do.  She knew also Janet’s motive for following her.  She was interested in nothing but her mistress.