Then, again, her reflections were disturbed by the memory of the gentle lady who believed her to be her daughter. How could she possibly desert her under any circumstances? Whatever the amount of her obligation toward Sir Philip, Stella realized that the love and duty she owed to Lady Gwendolen were none the less, but rather the more, urgent, should there, indeed, be no blood relationship between them. The more she pondered, the more troubled her mind became, and she longed above all things for the daybreak in order that she might put into action some of the plans which were formulating in her brain. Meantime, she was locked in, and could only be let out at Sir Philip’s pleasure. This reflection filled her with a deep annoyance, and she set about evolving methods of escape. There were two windows in her room, both tall and wide, divided by woodwork into squares about a foot high. She was only on the first floor, and the ivy which clung about every part of the walls would appear to offer a tolerably easy means of descent to one as light and agile as she. By half-past five o’clock she could endure her attitude of waiting and thinking no longer. Performing her toilet hastily, she changed her white silk evening gown into her serge morning costume, donned her hat and jacket, and pushing up the heavy sash of one of the windows, looked down on the terrace below and across at the trees to see whether her movements were observed. No one was astir yet. A faint morning haze lay upon the fresh spring foliage about the treetops, and the morning sun, as it tried to burst through the vapor which rose from the damp earth, turned the dewdrops on the grass to shimmering diamonds. Catching her skirts close to her, she ventured one slender foot over the ledge of the window, testing the strength of the support accorded by the ivy. Luckily for her, the roots of a great ivy tree started at a point exactly between the windows of her room, and the branches were strong enough to support a far heavier burden than her light frame. A few scrambling steps, a prodigious rustling of ivy leaves, some tiny stones displaced, and then, with a flushed face, a dusty dress, and the palms of her soft hands a little cut and scratched, Stella found herself standing on the terrace, free. A few moments later, she was running like a startled hare in the direction of a weak point in the wall which surrounded the Chase enclosure, as she particularly wished to avoid awaking the lodge-keepers from their slumbers. By a quarter past six she had reached the inn where Hilary was staying. The window-blinds were all drawn down, and no one was stirring but her friend the hostler, who, whistling an air popular in London some months before, was pottering about the stable-yard.