“Mr. Chiffinch,” said she, “you tell me, upon your honour, that this is the King’s hand, and that he means what is written here?”

“I give you my honour, mistress,” he said.

She tossed the paper upon the table; she went swiftly across to the further door, and opened it.

“Anne!” she said.

A voice answered her from within.

“Put out my riding-dress.  Pack all that you can, that I shall need in the country.  We have to ride at noon.”  She shut the door again, and turned on us—­or rather, upon Mr. Chiffinch.

“Sir,” she said, “you have done your errand.  Perhaps you will now relieve me of your company.  I shall be awaiting my cousin, Mr. Roger Mallock, as the King requires, at noon.”

“Dolly—­” said I.

She continued, looking through me, as through glass.

“At noon:  and I trust he will not keep me waiting.”

There was no more to be done.  We turned and went out.

“Lord! what a termagant is your pretty cousin, Mr. Mallock!” said my companion when we were out of doors again.  “You could have trusted her well enough, I think.”

I was not in the mood to discuss her with him; I had other things to think of.

“Mr. Chiffinch,” I said, “I am very much obliged to you; but I must be off for my own packing.”  And I bade him good-day.

* * * * *

When I rode into the court, five minutes before noon, a very piteous little group awaited me by the inner gate.  Dolly, very white and angry, stood by the mounting-block, striving to preserve her dignity.  Her maid was behind her, arguing how the bags should be disposed on the pack-horse, with the fellow who was to lead it.  Dolly’s own horse was not yet come; but as I rode up to salute her, he came out of an archway led by a groom.

I leapt off, and stood by the mounting-block to help her.  Again it was as if I were not there.  She jerked her head to the man.

“Help me,” she said.

He was in a quandary, for he could not leave the horse’s head.

“I am very sorry, Dolly,” said I, “but you will have to put up for me for once.  Come.”

She gave a look of despair round about; but there was no help.

“It is on the stroke of noon,” I said.

She submitted; but it was with the worst grace I have ever seen.  She accepted my ministrations; but it was as if I were a machine:  not one word did she speak, good or bad.

By the time that she was mounted, her maid was up too, and the bags disposed.

“Come,” I said again; and mounted my own horse.

As we rode out through the great gate, the Clock Tower beat the hour of noon.

* * * * *

I am weary of saying that my journeys were strange; but, certainly, this was another of them.

* * * * *