Head bent, Henry hurried along until she came to a roadway. She walked briskly for some distance, mingling with crowds of people who did not afford her hurrying figure a second glance. Only one urchin seemed in any way interested. He appeared to be following her, ducking into doorways and behind other pedestrians to avoid being seen, though she did not look back even once. When she finally hailed a hackney cab and climbed inside, the urchin ran up behind. He clung to a bar at the back when the vehicle moved away.

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Henry was wrong. The Duke of Eversleigh was not away from home that afternoon. As she was making her escape from the house, he was closeted with James Ridley in his office. He had been there for some time, going over with his secretary a pile of business papers that had arrived from his estates by the morning mail. Finally he got to his feet, stretched, and walked over to the bookshelves, where he stood leaning his weight on one elbow.

"Ah, do you have my wife's bills here, James?" he asked languidly.

"From this week, your Grace?" Ridley asked, looking up startled.

Eversleigh mused. "Are they all paid, James?"

"Yes, your Grace," Ridley replied. "-You have instructed me always to do so."

"Quite so," Eversleigh said, inspecting his fingernails through half-closed lids. "Have any of them been excessively large?"

Ridley thought. "There was a dressmaker's bill for almost three hundred pounds last week," he said uneasily.

The duke looked at him steadily. "Nothing larger?" asked.

"No, your Grace."

Eversleigh stood, examining his boots.

After a few respectful moments, Ridley returned his attention to the papers spread before him. He looked up again when his employer spoke.

"Have there been any gambling debts, James?"

"You mean by her Grace?" asked Ridley. "No."

"Hmm." The duke was again silent. Then he looker closely at his secretary. "You spend too much time in this office, James," he said kindly. "It is not good for your health, dear boy. Take yourself out and do something for me."

"Your Grace?"

"Find out if my wife owes or has owed a large sum of money to anyone in-ah, let me see-the last month or so."

Ridley looked aghast. "How am I to do that?" he asked.

Eversleigh looked hard at him. "You are an enterprising young man who likes a challenge, James," he said languidly. "I am sure you will find a way."

James Ridley did not reply.

"And James," the duke continued.

"Your Grace?"

"This is to be done discreetly and in the strictest confidence."

"Of course, your Grace."

Eversleigh picked a speck of dust from the sleeve of his coat and pushed himself upright. "I have seen quite enough of these four walls for one day," he said. "I am going to go out in search of some amusement. I suggest you do the same, dear boy."

James Ridley stared in dismay at the employer's back, which retreated unhurriedly through the doorway.

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Henry had been wrong about the twins, too. Although Miss Manford and Penelope were indeed in the schoolroom, Phil was not. The three of them had held a conference following their return from the park.

"Well, we certainly did not find out anything new, Philip said. "If it had not been for that stupid cat getting stuck in that tree, we might have got close enough to have heard something useful:"

"It is hardly likely, dear," Miss Manford said practically, since Mr. Cranshawe and your sister were on horseback and moving. They would have seen us for sure if we had tried to get close."

"We could have moved along behind the trees," Philip said, sighing over the lost opportunity.

"Well, I think it all worked well," Penelope said, stroking the back of the cat as it lapped up a saucer of milk. -We certainly saved Henry from whatever the teeth had planned for her. And besides," she added, "if Cleopatra had not got stuck in the tree, we would never have found her.

"Well, I think we had better keep an eye on Henry twenty-four hours a day," said Philip melodramatically. "I don't trust that man."

"I am sure you exaggerate, dear boy," Miss Manford said. "He is a gentleman, after all."

"Manny, do gentlemen kiss ladies in public?" asked Philip scornfully.

Miss Manford declined to answer. She blushed instead.

"I think everything will be well for today," Penelope said, gathering the cat into her lap and continuing to stroke its back. "His Grace is taking her to the opera tonight, is he not?"

"We must watch her until then," Philip insisted. "She went to her room after luncheon."

"We have not had our history lesson today," Miss Manford protested.

"Oh, Manny, I can take the book with me and read while I watch," said Philip. "Are you coming, Pen?"

"Who is to look after Cleopatra?" she asked. "The poor little thing is feeling so strange and Oscar has been so rude to her."

"Well, she does stink a little bit, Pen," her brother said. "I shall go alone, then."

Philip, in the true spirit of the drama of the situation, as lie saw it, went first to his room and changed into the urchin's clothes that he had worn the night before, and then tiptoed quietly into the empty room opposite Henry's. Ile settled himself in a chair from which he could see the handle edge of her door through the door of his room, which he left slightly ajar.

Thus it was that Philip saw Henry slip from the house and was all ready to follow her. He did so without hesitation. It was obvious to him as soon as he saw her unusually drab outfit and as soon as she turned in the direction of the back stairs, that she was on some secret errand. He held her very carefully in sight until she hired a hackney cab. For a moment Philip was alarmed. He thought he would lose her. Fortunately, there was time after Henry got into the carriage and before it moved away for him to run forward and swing himself up behind. The driver did not notice, and none of the passersby seemed to consider his actions strange enough to raise any alarm.

Chapter 11

Henry sat in her room later the same afternoon, looking flushed but triumphant. She was at a small escritoire, writing a letter. A small collection of crumpled sheets of paper surrounding her on the floor showed that the words of the letter were not coming easily. This time she seemed satisfied. She signed her name with a flourish, shook the paper in order to dry the ink, and reread what she had written.

Dear Mr. Cranshawe [she had written, having discarded the notion of calling him Oliver],

I am now able to repay my debt to you. I thank you with all my heart for having helped me out of a difficulty. You will find three thousand pounds enclosed in this package.

I remain your grateful friend,

Henrietta Devron

Yes, that was quite enough, she decided. She did not need to say more. There was just the correct combination of gratitude and reserve. She folded the letter, slid it into the package with the bank notes, and tied the bundle securely with ribbon. She rang the bell for Betty.

"Betty," she said when her maid entered the room a few minutes later, "which footman is most reliable to send on a secret and important errand?" Henry did not mince her words. She had learned from experience that Betty was devoted to her and could be trusted to keep her secrets.

Betty did not hesitate. "Robert, your Grace," she said.

"Good. Will you send him to me?" Henry directed.

Within ten minutes Robert had been sent to Oliver Cranshawe's residence with the package. The footman had strict instructions to deliver it into the hands of Cranshawe himself or, failing that, into the hands of his personal valet. He was not to wait for a reply.