“Has he expectations from Uncle Aubrey?” Sir Charles asked of White Heather.

Mrs. Brabazon laughed.  “Uncle Aubrey!  Oh, dear, no.  Poor dear old Uncle Aubrey!  Why, the darling old soul hasn’t a penny to bless himself with, except his pension.  He’s a retired post captain.”  And she laughed melodiously.  She was a charming woman.

“Then I should disregard Uncle Aubrey’s feelings,” Sir Charles said decisively.

“No, no,” the curate answered.  “Poor dear old Uncle Aubrey!  I wouldn’t do anything for the world to annoy him.  And he’d be sure to notice it.”

We went back to Amelia.  “Well, have you got them?” she asked.

“No,” Sir Charles answered.  “Not yet.  But he’s coming round, I think.  He’s hesitating now.  Would rather like to sell them himself, but is afraid what ‘Uncle Aubrey’ would say about the matter.  His wife will talk him out of his needless consideration for Uncle Aubrey’s feelings; and to-morrow we’ll finally clench the bargain.”

Next morning we stayed late in our salon, where we always breakfasted, and did not come down to the public rooms till just before déjeûner, Sir Charles being busy with me over arrears of correspondence.  When we did come down the concierge stepped forward with a twisted little feminine note for Amelia.  She took it and read it.  Her countenance fell.  “There, Charles,” she cried, handing it to him, “you’ve let the chance slip.  I shall never be happy now!  They’ve gone off with the diamonds.”

Charles seized the note and read it.  Then he passed it on to me.  It was short, but final:—­

“Thursday, 6 a.m.

“DEAR LADY VANDRIFT—­Will you kindly excuse our having gone off hurriedly without bidding you good-bye?  We have just had a horrid telegram to say that Dick’s favourite sister is dangerously ill of fever in Paris.  I wanted to shake hands with you before we left—­you have all been so sweet to us—­but we go by the morning train, absurdly early, and I wouldn’t for worlds disturb you.  Perhaps some day we may meet again—­though, buried as we are in a North-country village, it isn’t likely; but in any case, you have secured the grateful recollection of Yours very cordially, JESSIE BRABAZON.

“P.S.—­Kindest regards to Sir Charles and those dear Wentworths, and a kiss for yourself, if I may venture to send you one.”

“She doesn’t even mention where they’ve gone,” Amelia exclaimed, in a very bad humour.

“The concierge may know,” Isabel suggested, looking over my shoulder.

We asked at his office.

Yes, the gentleman’s address was the Rev. Richard Peploe Brabazon,
Holme Bush Cottage, Empingham, Northumberland.

Any address where letters might be sent at once, in Paris?

For the next ten days, or till further notice, Hôtel des Deux
Mondes, Avenue de l’Opéra.

Amelia’s mind was made up at once.