She excused herself with such anxious humility that Christobel’s sympathy was with her entirely. Adrian said nothing. Mrs. Romilly started for Clawtol escorted by Hughie. Then Pamela Romilly made preparations to put her foot down with credit to her family. She brushed her long hair, changed her blouse, and put on a different hat, a shady one. She got out clean washed gauntlet gloves, and polished her brown shoes. Then she went up to Woodrising. She met no one by the way, and all the time was conscious of surprise at her own boldness--for no one can deny it was bold. Arrived outside the carriage-gate in the wall she found it was locked. There was a pair of big gates with little spikes along the top, and in one of these was a small gate. "Anyone would think it was a lunatic asylum," thought the girl, and from that sprang a sudden amazing question: "Was it? Was this strange girl a ’funny person’? She did not look ’cracked’," as Pam breathlessly put it, but one never knows! The only thing to do was to summon Mrs. Trewby by the gate bell. So she rang it. As she stood waiting, she recalled that Mrs. Trewby had told Mrs. Jeep she always kept the gate locked, because of tramps and trippers. "Anybody wouldn’t believe how folk make free with a person’s property," Mrs. Trewby had said. "Here, there, and everywhere--and to sweep up after them is not what I’m paid to do." So the gate was kept locked because of excursionists, not lunatics. Mrs. Trewby came with slow steps, and Pamela heard her sigh as she undid the chain. The small gate opened, and the two looked at each other through the opening. "Good afternoon," said Pamela politely, "could I see the young lady who is staying here?" Mrs. Trewby looked as though someone had fired a squib in her ear. Her sallow face and melancholy eyes became distracted and rather frightened. "Young lady," she echoed, and moved the gate a few inches as though to close it. "Yes. We needn’t pretend, need we, Mrs. Trewby. I’ve seen her, and she sent me a note last evening asking me to meet her. I must speak to her." "Sent you a note, miss!" Mrs. Trewby repeated these words in a startled manner. "Who ever brought it? If it was boy----" In this way Mrs. Trewby let the cat quite out of the bag, and made it impossible to deny the presence of the young lady at Woodrising. "She brought it herself," said Pamela, "if you want to know how she gave it in, you’d better ask her, I’m not here to tell things; I’m here to speak to her, it’s important." Mrs. Trewby stood in awe of the Romillys, and at that moment she was almost afraid of Pamela. "Well, miss," she conceded, "if you’ll step inside, I’ll tell Mrs. Chipman. She will be in a way, but I can ask her. It’s no business of mine--what I say is ’attend to your own business, it’ll take all your time’--nobody can say I’ve put myself forward to interfere; it’s not my nature; I never was one for forwardness, that I will say."