I walked on as briskly as the heat would let me till I reached the cross-road which led to the village, looking back from time to time to make sure that I was not followed by any one.

Nothing was behind me all the way but an empty country waggon.  The noise made by the lumbering wheels annoyed me, and when I found that the waggon took the road to the village, as well as myself, I stopped to let it go by and pass out of hearing.  As I looked toward it, more attentively than before, I thought I detected at intervals the feet of a man walking close behind it, the carter being in front, by the side of his horses.  The part of the cross-road which I had just passed over was so narrow that the waggon coming after me brushed the trees and thickets on either side, and I had to wait until it went by before I could test the correctness of my impression.  Apparently that impression was wrong, for when the waggon had passed me the road behind it was quite clear.

I reached the inn without meeting Sir Percival, and without noticing anything more, and was glad to find that the landlady had received Fanny with all possible kindness.  The girl had a little parlour to sit in, away from the noise of the taproom, and a clean bedchamber at the top of the house.  She began crying again at the sight of me, and said, poor soul, truly enough, that it was dreadful to feel herself turned out into the world as if she had committed some unpardonable fault, when no blame could be laid at her door by anybody—­not even by her master, who had sent her away.

“Try to make the best of it, Fanny,” I said.  “Your mistress and I will stand your friends, and will take care that your character shall not suffer.  Now, listen to me.  I have very little time to spare, and I am going to put a great trust in your hands.  I wish you to take care of these two letters.  The one with the stamp on it you are to put into the post when you reach London to-morrow.  The other, directed to Mr. Fairlie, you are to deliver to him yourself as soon as you get home.  Keep both the letters about you and give them up to no one.  They are of the last importance to your mistress’s interests.”

Fanny put the letters into the bosom of her dress.  “There they shall stop, miss,” she said, “till I have done what you tell me.”

“Mind you are at the station in good time to-morrow morning,” I continued.  “And when you see the housekeeper at Limmeridge give her my compliments, and say that you are in my service until Lady Glyde is able to take you back.  We may meet again sooner than you think.  So keep a good heart, and don’t miss the seven o’clock train.”

“Thank you, miss—­thank you kindly.  It gives one courage to hear your voice again.  Please to offer my duty to my lady, and say I left all the things as tidy as I could in the time.  Oh, dear! dear! who will dress her for dinner to-day?  It really breaks my heart, miss, to think of it.”