“Take these here gloves, then, for massy sake!” cried the peddler in desperation, “ef yer won’t take nothin’ else.  They’re the richest of silk gloves, and, bein’ it’s you, only fifty cents.  Just you feel ’em.”

He looked Mrs. Sharpe full in the face.  She took the gloves—­a slip of paper was to be felt inside—­a moment’s demur, then she purchased and put them in her pocket.

The peddler departed; Mrs. Sharpe went upstairs, and drew forth the slip of paper.  There were but three lines: 

“Meet me this afternoon at two.  I will be waiting in the woods near the shore, where you saw my boat yesterday.  I know he was with you last night.”

Mrs. Sharpe read this, destroyed it, and sat ruminating.

“What if they won’t let me go?  But no, they wouldn’t dare keep me a prisoner, and if it came to fisticuffs,” smiling to herself, “I could beat the three of them—­poor old bodies!  I’ll go by strategy, if possible—­by main force, if necessary.  But I’ll go.”

Five minutes longer the nurse sat thinking.  Then she arose, walked down-stairs, and complained drearily of a shocking bad headache.

Mrs. Oleander recommended a woman’s cure—­a cup of strong tea and going to bed.  But Susan Sharpe shook her head.

“Tea never does me no good, and going to bed only makes me worse.  I suppose it’s staying in-doors so much.  I ain’t used to it.  I always take a walk every afternoon.  I’ll wait and see if it gets better.  If it don’t, I’ll go and take a little walk along the shore.  A mouthful of fresh air will do me good.”

Mrs. Sharpe waited accordingly, but the headache did not get better.  On the contrary, it grew so much worse that when the one-o’clock dinner was ready, she was unable to eat a mouthful.  She lay with her head on the table in a sort of stupor.

“I think you had better take a walk,” said Mrs. Oleander, who was not an ill-natured old woman on the whole.  “I don’t want you to be laid up on our hands.”

Mrs. Sharpe glanced at the clock; it wanted a quarter of two.  She rose at once.

“I think I must, or I’ll be fit for nothing for a week.  I’ll go and put on my things.”

In five minutes, Susan Sharpe walked out of the garden gate and down to the shore.  Old Peter closed the gate, watched her out of sight, and went back to the house, unsuspectingly.

Mrs. Sharpe sauntered slowly over the sandy beach to the strip of dark woods, skirted them, to avoid being seen from the windows of the house, and called: 

“Mr. Ingelow.”

“Here,” answered a voice, and the peddler emerged from the trees and stood beside her.  “You’re a treasure, Mrs. Susan Sharpe,” said the peddler—­“worth your weight in crown diamonds.  How is she?”

“As well as can be expected.  A good deal the better for seeing you from her window last evening.”

“I saw you both watching.  She knows I have come to rescue her?”