Only journals which more or less supported the Government were permitted to obtain ‘copy’ of such thrilling interest! And yet they speak of a free press and a free country! Tearing myself away from these reflections, I bent my mind on the awful paragraph. ‘The melting of the snow has thrown a lurid light on the mysterious disappearance (which up to this moment had attracted no attention) of an eccentric baronet, well known in sporting circles. Yesterday afternoon a gentleman’s groom, wading down the highway, discovered the white hat of a gentleman floating on the muddy stream into which the unparalleled weather and the negligence of the Road Trustees has converted our thoroughfare. An inscription in red ink within the lining leaves no doubt that this article of dress is all that is left of the late Sir Runan Errand. The unfortunate nobleman’s friends have been communicated with. The active and intelligent representative of the local police believes that he is in possession of a clue to the author of the crime. Probably the body of the murdered noble has been carried down by the flooded road to the sea.’ I tore that paper to pieces, and used it to wrap up sandwiches for the journey. Once again I say, if you cannot feel with me, throw this tale aside. Heaven knows it is a sombre one, and it goes on getting sombrer and sombrer! But probably, by this time, you have either tossed the work away or looked at the end to see what happened to them all. The morning dawned. I filled my bag with Hanover pieces, which I thought might come in handy on the Spanish Turf, and packed up three or four yellow, red, green, and blue opera hats, so useful to the adventurous bookmaker. At this very moment the postman arrived and gave me a letter in a woman’s hand. I thrust it in my breast pocket recklessly. The cab rattled away. At last we were off. I am sure that no one who could have seen us that morning would have dreamt that out of that party of three--a more than comfortable-looking English matron, a girl whose strange beauty has been sufficiently dwelt upon, and a gentleman in a yellow crush hat and a bookmaker’s bag--two were flying from the hands of justice. Our appearance was certainly such as to disarm all suspicion. But appearances are proverbially deceitful. Were ours deceitful enough? ‘But where are we going?’ said my mother, with the short memory of old age. ‘To Paris first, then to Spain, and, if needful, down to Khartoum.’ ‘_Then_ you young people will have to go alone. I draw the line at Dongola.’ I glanced at Philippa. Then for the first time since her malady I saw Philippa blushing! Her long curved eyelashes hid her eyes, which presumably were also pink, but certainly my mother’s broad pleasantry had called a tell-tale blush to the cheek of the young person.