“And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. “Well?” she said. She did not therefore reveal to him that he had guaged her with accuracy. It was precisely two o'clock on the morning of Whit-monday, the 25th of May 1724, when the remarkable escape before detailed was completed: and, though it wanted full two hours to daybreak, the glimmer of a waning moon prevented it from being totally dark. He rose, steadied himself, then walked out of the dining room. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. For that my father so stupide was in love with this Suzanne Valade, is it not?’ ‘Well, miss,’ temporised Mrs Ibstock, ‘we didn’t rightly know that then. If you will think only of one trifling aspect—the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence—I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us.
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