“Much chance of that with you gettin’ me out of bed as the cock crowed and hurryin’ me down here as if the very fiends in Hell were after us. What happened last night?”

Mrs. Merryweather turned a pair of searching eyes upon Gretna and there was a noticeable hesitation before she replied.

“Nothing, I assure you – b-but I knew you were in a hurry to get to St. Albans and I – am consumed by the urgency to arrive in London.”

“The Marquis – he treated you – properly?” Mrs. Merryweather asked in a conspiratorial stage whisper.

“But of course.”

Gretna’s chin went a little higher as if the suggestion was impudent.

“Now, you mustn’t mind me askin’, dearie,” Mrs. Merryweather said apologetically. “I feel responsible to the memory of your blessed mother. It was not right that a lady in your position should dine alone with a gentleman, least of all that Marquis, whatever airs and graces he may give himself.”

“There is no reason for your concern,” Gretna replied with a little edge on her voice as if she had no wish to speak further of what had occurred.

“Then wherefore the haste?” Mrs. Merryweather asked. “An hour we’ve had to wait till these lazy good-for-nothin’ coachmen could stir their stumps and get the horses between the shafts. Why the hurry if there’s no reason behind it?”

“I want to reach – to London,” Gretna answered simply.

Mrs. Merryweather pressed her lips together. It was quite obvious that she was not satisfied. Equally she was not in a position to press her curiosity further.

The stagecoach was jogging along at a comfortable pace, but even so the movement was giving her pain.

But she forgot her own aches in watching Gretna’s averted face and puzzling as to what had happened the night before.

The girl was looking definitely pale, Mrs. Merryweather decided. Not that such a pallor was unbecoming, in fact it gave her a fragile almost spiritual air that somehow accentuated her beauty.

But there were dark lines under her eyes as if she had not slept and her pretty mouth was drooping at the corners a little wistfully. In fact there was something in her whole manner that told Mrs. Merryweather that she was troubled.

They travelled in silence with Mrs. Merryweather cogitating over what she had heard and trying to make up her mind what was the best approach to find out more.

Suddenly Gretna turned to her and, in a tone that was almost one of anguish, asked,

“You are sure, Mrs. Merryweather, that I am doing what is right in going to London to Aunt Maria?”

Mrs. Merryweather stared at her in surprise. This was a question that she had not expected.

“Why, bless my soul,” she exclaimed, “where else would you go? You know she’s always said that you could rely on her if anythin’ happened to your mother. I’ve heard her myself a thousand times.”