"And the bag itself is a most beautiful little thing! It's shabby and
old, but it cost a great deal when it was new. What a strange, strange
thing! We must tell Cousin Philip. Somebody, perhaps, was watching us all
the time!"
She sat with her chin on her hands, gazing thoughtfully at French, the
bag on her knees. Now that the little adventure was over, and she was
begging him to take her back quickly to the house, Geoffrey was only
conscious of disappointment and chagrin. What did the silly mystery in
itself matter to him or her? But it had drawn a red herring across his
track. Would the opportunity it had spoilt ever return?
CHAPTER X
It was a glorious June morning; and Beechmark, after the ball, was just
beginning to wake up. Into the June garden, full of sun but gently beaten
by a fresh wind, the dancers of the night before emerged one by one.
Peter Dale had come out early, having quarrelled with his bed almost for
the first time in his life. He was now, however, fast asleep in a
garden-chair under a chestnut-tree. Buntingford, in flannels, and as
fresh as though he had slept ten hours instead of three, strolled out
through the library window, followed by French and Vivian Lodge.
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