“I’m as certain sure as I’m sittin’ here she never got the letter. I know she’s in London now. They told me up at the Big House that she came back in December and they gave me the address, Park Street, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right, Park Street off Park Lane,” Gretna nodded.

“Then you can be sure that you will find her waitin’ for you.”

“I wish I could have had an answer to my last letter – the one I wrote three days ago telling her I was coming to her in London.”

“Well, there wasn’t time, was there?” Mrs. Merryweather asked. “With that horrible bailiff takin’ the cottage off you and sayin’ it wasn’t decent that you should be livin’ there alone. Decent, indeed! You wait till Mr. Walter Smythe hears of this. He’ll have somethin’ to say.”

“He may never hear,” Gretna said quietly.

“You mean he may die abroad? They don’t give much for his chances up at the Big House. The poor gentleman was ill, a very ill man when he went away. ’Tis strange that someone as active as he was attacked by the paralysis. But then we none of us know what God has in store for us.”

Mrs. Merryweather gave a heavy sigh.

“You could have come to me, dearie, as that rascally bailiff suggested.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Merryweather. You know I could not do that. It would have meant turning Fred or Bill out of their rooms. It would not be fair when they work so hard. Besides you have quite enough to do without looking after me.”

“Now let’s get this fair and square,” Mrs. Merryweather retorted. “There’s always room for you, dearie, at the farm whatever happens. It may not be the proper sort of accommodation for the Gentry, but there’s always a place for you, just as there’s always a place for you, God bless your sweet face, in my heart.”

“Oh, Mrs. Merryweather, you are so kind to me,” Gretna answered, pressing her hand. “And I know you made the excuse to go and see your sister in St. Albans just so that you could accompany me on this journey. I am very grateful, I am really.”