"Why can’t people leave other people’s affairs alone," said Pamela to herself. What business had this handsome strange girl to mix up in Romilly affairs? She melted occasionally when she remembered the affair of the cliff. It was well never to forget that the cool courage of this inconvenient "double" had saved her from tortures indescribable, and probably death. One must never forget gratitude, and a debt of honour like that; at the same time poor Pamela was grievously hurt at Adrian’s suspicions and scepticism. The worst of it was, they were true. Addie knew, of course, she could not have done the work alone. Yet she dare not speak. She had heard what the stranger said to Reube--Sir Marmaduke Shard was at the back of this mystery, he was a great K.C. and a person of untold wisdom; if she talked she might set on foot a whole host of mischief; she might offend the Shards and endanger the present joys of the yawl. She might destroy the friendship between the Bell House and Crown Hill. Pamela’s imagination saw herself a perfect outcast, scorned by both families, because she had not been able to hold her tongue for a brief period. The conditions were quite distinct to her eyes. Sir Marmaduke, having brought down the girl in secrecy--telling no one, not even Mrs. Romilly or his own daughter--must intend it to remain a secret, for the present anyway. And to prove it came the girl’s warning to Reube. It was plain that she went out early or late. She had been on the Beak again that morning at seven o’clock. Now was that by permission? Pamela believed it was not. She believed that her double gave the keepers at Woodrising a most anxious time. "She would," muttered Pam, with her head against the window frame, "she would--she hasn’t got that nose for nothing. She may trample on that wretched Chipman, and give Mrs. Trewby jaundice, but she shan’t trample on me. I can’t help looking like her, but there it ends--no human power shall turn me into a door-mat--to be ordered about by that nose." These metaphors were confused certainly, but the intention was very distinct. Pamela had made up her mind about that message thrown into Hughie’s window. She was going to proceed on direct lines--and at once. There, in the window-seat of her room, she had reasoned it out and come to the conclusion that she must take decided action. Nothing should make her meet the girl in secret. She would go to Woodrising after tea, ask to see her, and tell her so, once for all. Hughie asked no questions that day, he was a tactful child. Miss Chance had a headache, and the two elders were going out in the dinghy to fish for whiting, taking their tea. Pamela felt a pang when Crow said: "Won’t you ever come in the boat, Pam?" It looked as though she had private concealments, and the horrible part was that she had--only they were honourable and with excellent intentions.