Lunch being planned for rather an early hour, the two girls went down to get things in order about twelve o’clock. Adrian took the tiller, and, steering with his eyes half shut, whistled softly to himself. Christobel began setting the swing table in the saloon--the plan was to lay-to upon the wind and have a proper lunch, as there was time; Peterock cliffs were already in sight, and they would be moving towards their destination all the while on the drift of the tide. Pamela went through to light the stove--hot water would be wanted for washing up, which was never left indefinitely. She had just put the kettle on when she heard Christobel say something, and called out. "What’s that, Crow?" "How _funny_!" "What’s funny?" Pamela set a saucepan close to the kettle--with a view to egg-boiling--and then swooped through the low door full of curiosity. "What’s funny?" she asked again. Crow was sitting on the bunk seat which was generally called hers, holding something in her hand--a handkerchief. Not one of Adrian’s "tablecloths", nor one of the girls’ strong linen hem-stitched articles with the name letter in the corner. It was small and fine and lace-edged. Crow began turning it round slowly through her fingers, looking for some mark. A spasm passed through Pam’s mind. She was beginning to be accustomed to that sudden sick shock, that meant "danger ahead", but it was none the less unpleasant. Christobel came to a corner, and stayed. "Goodness!" she murmured. "I _say_, Pam, look here!" Pamela had no need to "look here", she guessed. "How _extraordinary_!" went on Crow with emphasis; "the same letters that were on the safety-pin brooch--and a tiny little coronet. It’s awfully pretty, but--who on earth!" She looked up at Pamela; their eyes met, and Christobel was acutely conscious that Pam knew something. She flushed scarlet; then the colour fled and left her very pale; her clear eyes shifted from Crow’s gaze, and in their depths was an uneasy, deprecating shadow. "Do you know anything about this?" asked Christobel. "About the handkerchief, no. Oh no, I don’t. How _could_ it come here?" It was perfectly true that she had no idea how the handkerchief came there, but it was not the sort of truth that was natural to Pamela Romilly, and as she said the horrid words she felt sick with herself. In a lightning moment she resolved to go to the Countess and tell her that she intended to state the whole position to Christobel--she would do it; she would warn the girl and have it all above-board. Silence fell like a stone between the sisters. Christobel realized that Pamela _had_ some secret; Pamela saw that she did. Slowly the elder girl folded up the handkerchief and put it in her skirt pocket. "What shall you do--about it?" asked Pamela nervously. "I shall give it to Mother, I suppose. When one considers that the letters and the coronet are the same--well----" Her tone was cold--she was hurt because Pam would not speak.