“She’s not in yet, sir.  Mr. Fiorsen’s in.”

“Ah!  And baby?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll come in and see her.  In the garden?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dogs there, too?”

“Yes, sir.  And will you have tea, please, sir?”

“No, thanks.”  How to effect this withdrawal without causing gossip, and yet avoid suspicion of collusion with Gyp?  And he added:  “Unless Mrs. Fiorsen comes in.”

Passing out into the garden, he became aware that Fiorsen was at the dining-room window watching him, and decided to make no sign that he knew this.  The baby was under the trees at the far end, and the dogs came rushing thence with a fury which lasted till they came within scent of him.  Winton went leisurely up to the perambulator, and, saluting Betty, looked down at his grandchild.  She lay under an awning of muslin, for fear of flies, and was awake.  Her solemn, large brown eyes, already like Gyp’s, regarded him with gravity.  Clucking to her once or twice, as is the custom, he moved so as to face the house.  In this position, he had Betty with her back to it.  And he said quietly: 

“I’m here with a message from your mistress, Betty.  Keep your head; don’t look round, but listen to me.  She’s at Bury Street and going to stay there; she wants you and baby and the dogs.”  The stout woman’s eyes grew round and her mouth opened.  Winton put his hand on the perambulator.  “Steady, now!  Go out as usual with this thing.  It’s about your time; and wait for me at the turning to Regent’s Park.  I’ll come on in my cab and pick you all up.  Don’t get flurried; don’t take anything; do exactly as you usually would.  Understand?”

It is not in the nature of stout women with babies in their charge to receive such an order without question.  Her colour, and the heaving of that billowy bosom made Winton add quickly: 

“Now, Betty, pull yourself together; Gyp wants you.  I’ll tell you all about it in the cab.”

The poor woman, still heaving vaguely, could only stammer: 

“Yes, sir.  Poor little thing!  What about its night-things?  And Miss Gyp’s?”

Conscious of that figure still at the window, Winton made some passes with his fingers at the baby, and said: 

“Never mind them.  As soon as you see me at the drawing-room window, get ready and go.  Eyes front, Betty; don’t look round; I’ll cover your retreat!  Don’t fail Gyp now.  Pull yourself together.”

With a sigh that could have been heard in Kensington, Betty murmured:  “Very well, sir; oh dear!” and began to adjust the strings of her bonnet.  With nods, as if he had been the recipient of some sage remarks about the baby, Winton saluted, and began his march again towards the house.  He carefully kept his eyes to this side and to that, as if examining the flowers, but noted all the same that Fiorsen had receded from the window.  Rapid thought told