She went along the little passage that led to the stairs. The door that opened from it into the garden room was narrowly ajar. A slice of light through the chink stood across the passage. _Oh_! There was someone in the room. Someone was speaking. She knew the voice. "She must be in soon," it said. It was her Aunt Julia's voice. She stopped dead. And there was silence in the room. Oh! to be caught like this! In a trap. And just when she had decided to go home! She would not be caught. She would steal up to her room, get her money, leave enough on the table to pay her bill, and _go_. She could walk to Marlotte--and go off by train in the morning to Brittany--anywhere. She would not be dragged back like a prisoner to be all the rest of her life with a hateful old man who detested her. Aunt Julia thought she was very clever. Well, she would just find out that she wasn't. Who was she talking to? Not Madame, for she spoke in English. To some one from Paris? Who could have betrayed her? Only one person knew. Lady St. Craye. Well, Lady St. Craye should not betray her for nothing. She would not go to Brittany: she would go back to Paris. That woman should be taught what it costs to play the traitor. All this in the quite small pause before her aunt's voice spoke again. "Unless she's got wind of our coming and flown," it said. "Our" coming? Who was the other? Betty was eavesdropping then? How dishonourable! Well, it is. And she was. "I hope to Heaven she's safe," said another voice. Oh--it was her step-father! He had come--Then he must know everything! She moved, quite without meaning to move; her knee touched the door and it creaked. Very very faintly, but it creaked. Would they hear? Had they heard? No--the aunt's voice again: "The whole thing's inexplicable to me! I don't understand it. You let Betty go to Paris." "By your advice." "By my advice, but also because you wanted her to be happy." "Yes--Heaven knows I wanted her to be happy." The old man's voice was sadder than Betty had ever heard it. "So we found Madame Gautier for her--and when Madame Gautier dies, she doesn't write to you, or wire to you, to come and find her a new chaperone. Why?" "I can't imagine why." "Don't you think it may have been because she was afraid of you, thought you'd simply make her come back to Long Barton?" "It would surely have been impossible for her to imagine that I should lessen the time which I had promised her, on account of an unfortunate accident. She knows the depth of my affection for her. No, no--depend upon it there must have been some other reason for the deceit. I almost fear to conjecture what the reason may have been. Do you think it possible that she has been seeing that man again?" There was a sound as of a chair impatiently pushed back. Betty fled noiselessly to the stairs. No footstep followed the movement of the chair. She crept back.