“Yes, I shall,” she answered earnestly.  “But here we are at home.  As you suggest, let us not speak of this poor little affair.”

“By no means,” I answered, as I opened the gate.

“And Baron Ned,” she said, holding me back for a moment, “have no fear that I shall lose my heart at court to the detriment of my fortune.  I may not consider myself—­only my father and my house.  It is my duty to make him happy, and I am going to do it without regard to any other purpose in life.  My having known Master Hamilton will not only keep other men out of my heart, but will help me to know them and will lead me to fear them when I go to court.”

Later in the evening my cousin and I walked out in town, and I had a long talk with her, partly concerning Hamilton, a theme to which she always returned, and partly concerning conditions she would meet if she became a maid of honor.  And my faith in her grew as we talked.

That night I went to sleep convinced that my beautiful cousin was strong enough and shrewd enough to evade all the pitfalls of Whitehall, and that her experience with Hamilton had been the one thing needful to make her keenly alive to her danger.  I felt that she was safe, but—­

Near the hour of two o’clock the next afternoon, Sir Richard and I, returning from a short walk, did not find Frances at home, so I made my way to the Bourne Path, thinking it hardly possible that in the face of yesterday’s events Frances could have gone to meet Hamilton.  Still one can never tell; therefore I took the benefit of the doubt and set forth to make sure.

When perhaps two miles from Sundridge, the day being warm, I climbed to a ledge of rock on the shelving bank of the bourne, twelve or fifteen feet above the path, and sat down to rest in the cool shade of a clump of bushes.  Below me, perhaps five or six feet above the path and far enough back among the bushes to be hidden from passers-by, was another rocky shelf or bench, admirably fitted to accommodate two persons.

Sarah had told me, after much questioning, that Frances had left home only a few minutes before Sir Richard and I had returned.  I had walked rapidly, and as I had not overtaken her, I concluded I was on the wrong scent.

Within ten minutes I discovered that I was not on the wrong scent, for, much to my surprise, sorrow, and disgust, I saw Frances and Hamilton come around a turn in the path, push aside the bushes as though they knew the place, enter the dense thicket bordering the path, and sit down on the rocky bench beneath me.  My first impulse was to speak, but for many reasons I determined to listen.  Silence reigned below me during the next minute or two, and then Hamilton spoke:—­

“You must deem me a coward, Mistress Jennings, since I did not call your cousin to account for what he said yesterday?”