With the same deadly composure she ordered a post-chaise, and started once again in pursuit. This time she would have no man’s help. She would go alone. “What business is it of yours?” had cried Lady Selina insolently, last night. And she had answered: “It’s every true woman’s business to keep another straight if she can.” But now, here was no altruistic interference; here love and life were at stake for her. Here was her own business and nobody else’s, with a vengeance! Gone this hour! Well, she would overtake them at Basingstoke, where they must halt of a certainty. Pamela had had, in a little purse apart, twenty golden guineas, her own profit in the successful week’s transactions in modes at Weymouth. She had meant to add them to the comfortable nest of savings which were to facilitate her marriage with her charming spendthrift. Now the shining company in the green silk meshes had already notably dwindled; and at every five miles or so, Pamela would draw forth a coin and, thrusting her pretty head out of the window, would hail the post-boy and hold it up to his sight. “Another goldfinch for you, my lad, if you mend your speed!” By the time they reached Basingstoke there were four sovereigns for the youth; and if he was sweating, it was nothing to which the horses were doing. They dripped and trembled and steamed, foam-flecked from mane to tail. Pamela’s green purse was considerably lighter; but it had been worth it. The fat dappled greys which had trotted off with my Lady Selina and Mr. Bellairs that morning were even now being led out of the shafts. A comfortable trot they had come at, to judge by their untroubled appearance. “Yes, Miss,” said the formidable-looking landlady who ruled at the Angel, Basingstoke, and who, no doubt, found a distinct growth of beard and a bass voice as useful to her if not more than the support of any man. “A lady and a gentleman are partaking of refreshment in the parlour. And what might you be wanting with them?” Her eye, small and fierce as a wild boar’s, appraised the new guest up and down. Pamela saw that travelling alone she was suspect; she had an inspiration. “I am Lady Selina’s own woman,” she said pertly. “Her Ladyship expects me. Kindly direct me.” She had seen too many lady’s maids not to be able to play the part: she was now the fashionable Abigail to the life--plausible, supple, sure of herself; her gaze was challenging; her air deferential, yet on the verge of insolence. The bearded landlady shrugged her shoulders, and told the drawer to bring Miss into Britannia. “You needn’t knock, young man, I will announce myself,” said Pamela. She tapped discreetly with her nails on the panel just beneath the figure with the trident; then, without waiting for a reply, opened the door.