I had especially dilated on the charms of the scenery and the salubrity of the climate in _countries where there was no extradition treaty with England_. Even if there was nothing in these circumstances to arouse the watchful jealousy of a mother, it must be remembered that, as a _chaperon_, she did seem to come a little late in the day. ‘As you have lived together so long without me,’ some parents would have observed, ‘you can do without me altogether.’ None of these trivial objections occurred to my mother. She was good-nature itself. Just returned from a professional tour on the Continent (she was, I should have said, in the profession herself, and admirably filled the _exigeant_ part of Stout Lady in a highly respectable exhibition), my mother at once began to pack up her properties and make ready to accompany us. Never was there a more good-humoured _chaperon_. If one of us entered the room where she was sitting with the other, she would humorously give me a push, and observing ‘Two is company, young people, three is none,’ would toddle off with all the alacrity that her figure and age permitted. I learned from inquiries addressed to the _Family Herald_ (correspondence column) that the Soudan was then, even as it is now, the land safest against English law. Spain, in this respect, was reckoned a bad second. The very next day I again broached the subject of foreign travel to my mother. It was already obvious that the frost would not last for ever. Once the snow melted, once the crushed mass that had been a baronet was discovered, circumstantial evidence would point to Philippa. True, there was no one save myself who could positively _swear_ that Philippa had killed Sir Runan. Again, though I could positively swear it, my knowledge was only an inference of my own. Philippa herself had completely forgotten the circumstance. But the suspicions of the Bearded Woman and of the White Groom were sure to be aroused, and the Soudan I resolved to seek without an hour’s delay. I reckoned without my hostess. My mother at first demurred. ‘You certainly don’t look well, Basil. But why the Soudan?’ ‘A whim, a sick man’s fancy. Perhaps because it is not so very remote from Old Calabar, the country of Philippa’s own father. Mother, tell me, how do you like her?’ ‘She is the woman you love, and however shady her antecedents, however peculiar her style of conversation, she is, she must be, blameless. To say more, after so short an acquaintance, might savour of haste and exaggeration.’ A woman’s logic! ‘Then you _will_ come to the Soudan with us to-morrow?’ ‘No, my child, further south than Spain I will _not_ go, not this journey!’ Here Philippa entered. ‘Well, what’s the next news, old man?’ she said. ‘To Spain, to-morrow!’ ‘Rain, rain, Go to Spain, Be sure you don’t come back again.’ sang sweet Philippa, in childish high spirits. I had rarely seen her thus!