Pamela did not mind in the least. She had a plan in fact. Why not come back by Woodrising? A basket of eggs would prove her business. She need not do anything--at the same time she felt she could not rest till she obtained some knowledge of her "double". Having settled that the girl did not exist, she had been shaken out of that security by Christobel’s surprising questions and confusion of her identity. It was not possible to pass it over. Fate had sent her another free day, clear of "family"; she must have one more attempt at Woodrising. She and her mother followed the thought of _Messenger’s_ return with interest. "If there had been a good wind they might have reached the lighthouse by now," said Pamela, spreading her bread and butter with a thankful heart, "as it is----" "What? ’As it _is_’" asked Mrs. Romilly. "Well, Mummy dear, no wind. What can they do? They’ll be coming down the estuary about now--perhaps crossing the bar. Miss Chance won’t feel the swell till they get really out--a good way." "Are they bound to feel the swell?" "Mummy, they are. I can assure you it’s the sort of heaving that makes one try hard _not_ to think of bacon grease. If you do, you’re sorry." "Poor Miss Chance," said Mrs. Romilly, and laughed. Pamela looked at her with eyes that were grey-green--sometimes they were blue, sometimes grey--it depended on the sky and the atmosphere. "I’m rather afraid," she remarked, "that a bit of bad luck is coming to those poor ones. There is a mist. You know how it begins. Bits of ragged chiffon seem to float past one, going nowhere in particular. There isn’t a breath of air, and yet a cold kind of draught has arrived." "I _am_ sorry," said Mrs. Romilly, with feeling, "but a fog won’t prevent their getting home. If they keep close in, the cliffs are so very obvious." Pamela made no comment on this; she simply said it certainly would not prevent her walk to Clawtol for the eggs, while through her mind ran the idea that nothing could be better than a good thick white mist--such as they got in perfection at Bell Bay--for her mystery hunting expedition. She kissed her mother and went, feeling joyous and independent. Her plan was cut and dried, so to speak, all settled--and when plans are like that they are very apt to turn topsy-turvy, and land people where they least expected to be. Pamela went the usual way, across the lawns, out by the wicket that led to the beach, and very slowly up the steep cliff road past Crown Hill lodge gates and on up to Hawksdown. A sea fog has the effect of producing a feeling of loneliness. It cuts you off, and it makes voices and distant noises sound different. She went on till she reached the summit, and arriving there, went along cautiously towards the cliff edge, to see if the _Messenger_ might be within sight.