On the hall table was an envelope addressed to me in Rose’s writing, but it had not passed through the post. I took it up with misgivings which all too soon were to be justified. “Dearest Dombeen” (it ran), “I have gone away with Ronnie. He needs me more than anyone else does, or at least I believe so. Eustace will understand why I have gone when he begins to think.” So far it was written clearly and directly. But then came some broken sentences. “As for Rose,” she had begun, and then had stopped. “Rose is my only” she had begun again and again had stopped. “Will you” was another false start and was also scored through. The letter finished merely like this. “Dearest Dombeen, think your kindliest of me. Good-bye. Rose.” How long I held the paper in my hand I cannot say; but I then rang to know how it had got there at all. Suzanne answered the summons. I asked her what she knew. She was crying softly as she told me. Mademoiselle Rose—Madame Holt, she should say--had rushed in “toute émotionnée.” She could not wait for me. She had come in a car. She had written the note and was gone again. Did Suzanne know what the note was about? Ah, yes. Quel dommage! But la vie cannot be kept within fixed bounds. Pots boil over. All this in her hard Norman speech. She was fatalistic, but still she wiped her eyes. Monsieur would not think less of Madame Holt because of this, would he? I assured her that I was not a judge. “La pauvre petite!” Suzanne exclaimed, with a sob. She had been so assiduous in spoiling Rose’s daughter when they were with me that I naturally thought these words referred to the younger of them. But I was wrong. It was of the older Rose that she was still thinking, for she went on more brightly: “Mais, c’est bon. Maintenant elle sera heureuse.” “Will she?” I asked. Mais oui. Suzanne was certain of it. Madame Holt would not have taken so great a step if she were not to be happier for it. I was astounded at her confidence. My first impulse was to hasten after the fugitives and try to bring them to reason. But reflection showed me that this was impracticable. I had no notion where they had gone or even when; probably not by train, but all the way in the motor, and there has never been such an ally of runaways as petrol. In the old days there was some chance, even though faint, of tracking and overtaking a pair of horses; but motor-cars vanish into thin air, leaving rainbow splashes in the roadway to mock the pursuer in every hue. Then I wondered if Sir Edmund and Lady Fergusson knew. For Rose to tell me at once was natural; but would not Ronnie wish to let a little time elapse before breaking the news? I guessed so. At any rate, it was not for me to be the bearer of such ill tidings. If it was for anyone to storm the citadel, that person was the wronged Eustace.