But the longest afternoon comes to an end some time, and Lady Drumloch’s weary looks presently reminded her guests that she was but recently off her sick-bed. So with a great rustling of silks and sweeping of voluminous curtseys, they withdrew, with as many farewell speeches as though they did not expect to meet again in a few hours at dinner, rout or playhouse, and left the old countess to be carried up-stairs, and the two girls to their own devices. When they were alone, Peggie threw her arms round her cousin. "Oh! my poor Prue," she cried; "what I have suffered for you the last hour—" "Tell me of your sufferings by and by, Peggie," said Prue, rather ungratefully. "If you would help me, bid James fetch a chair, while I get me a cloak; I must hasten to the duchess." "The duchess! Oh, Prue, dearest, don’t do anything rash; for Heaven’s sake, try to be discreet. If you can not help Robin, do not ruin yourself for the sake of a thief!" "You are quite mistaken, Margaret; every one is determined that Robin has taken the necklace, and if I did not know him better than you do, I might think the same. But trust me; for once I will be the personification of prudence, and you will see that everything will come right. If any one should ask you where I am, say I have gone to offer my services and sympathies to the duchess. Sure, ’tis a terrible blow for her, and there are those about the queen who would rejoice if it were mortal. No one will wonder that I should wish at such a time to prove my friendship for one who has so often stood by me." *CHAPTER XVIII* *THE DEN OF THE HIGHWAYMAN* Prue allowed James to direct the chairmen to Marlborough House, but, a short distance away, she stopped them, and giving them a crown, desired them to carry her with the utmost speed to Essex Street, where she would reward them amply for their diligence. Scenting an intrigue, with the usual accompaniment of a generous douceur for their share in it, they trotted off at a pace that gave their light burden hard work to keep her seat. With all their haste, it was dark before they reached Essex Street, where Prue desired them to seek out "Pip’s Coffee-House," a small hostelry of retiring, not to say furtive aspect. A flickering oil-lamp hung over the entrance, and through the red-baize window-curtain a dull glimmer penetrated. Excited as she was, Prue was not without alarms at the sinister possibilities of this adventure, so vastly different from the sparkling follies of her giddy career. But "Cowards fayle," and Prue was no coward, nor was she capable of drawing back when curiosity and inclination combined to thrust her on. She descended, and bidding the chairmen wait, boldly entered the house and knocked at the first door she came to.