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She stood up and without protest walked steadily to the cabin door. He watched her go in a mood partly of satisfaction that he was getting rid of her and partly of annoyance at having been forced into such an invidious position at all.

Suddenly an idea occurred to him.

“Wait a minute! It must have been raining when you got here, yet your clothes aren’t wet. You must have had a coat or a mackintosh. Where is it?”

“In the galley on the hook on the inside of the door,” she told him in a voice completely devoid of expression.

“Well, get it,” he ordered grimly. “I don’t want you to have any excuse for coming back! ”

“You needn’t worry, I wouldn’t come back if I was dying!” she declared passionately, and dashed into the galley to emerge struggling into a mackintosh as unprepossessing as the rest of her clothes. “Would you like me to turn out the pockets in case I’ve stolen anything?” she demanded belligerently.

He ignored that, contenting himself with standing, arms folded, while she negotiated the narrow plank gangway. Then, involuntarily, he took a step towards her. The rain had made the wood slippery and just as she was about to step on to the bank, one foot skidded and she almost fell.

But John’s intervention was unnecessary. At that precise moment Miss Coates emerged through the little gate in the hedge, unceremoniously dropped the parcels she was carrying and was in time to keep Rosamund from falling.

“That was a nearly!” she remarked cheerfully. Then, anxiously: “My dear, you’re crying! Have you hurt yourself?”

“N-no,” Rosamund stammered. Then she pulled herself together. “No, I’m quite all right, thank you very much.”

“But you’re not, my child,” Miss Coates insisted. “Now, tell me what’s wrong and we’ll see what we can do about it! ” And putting a protecting arm round the slim, shivering figure, she shot an unmistakably accusing look at John.

“Not what you’re quite evidently thinking, madam,” he was stung to retort. “I have not inveigled her here and I have not assaulted her! On the contrary, she came of her own free will and without my knowledge or consent. In addition, she had helped herself to some of my food, her excuse being a cock and bull story about having lost her purse! If you’ll take my advice, you’ll send her packing, as I’ve done!”

“But I’m not willing to take your advice,” Miss Coates replied blandly. “Any more than you, I’m sure, would accept mine! Good afternoon, Mr. Lindsay. And now—” she smiled reassuringly at Rosamund, “let’s go to my boat and share a cup of tea, shall we?”

John watched them go as they turned their backs on him and made for the
Pride of London
.

It would have been very natural if his principal feeling had been one of relief at having got rid of his incubus. But it was nothing of the sort He was keenly aware of a sense of perplexity.

As Rosamund turned her back on him he was convinced that he’d seen her before, though where and when he had no idea. Oh, absurd! If that was so then surely he would have remembered her face, and he hadn’t. But there was something about her walk—elegant to the degree that she seemed almost to float along, despite the roughness of the towpath. And the poise of her head—

No, he couldn’t remember, and after all, what did it matter? Whether Miss Coates allowed herself to be imposed on by the girl or not, he would take good care that he wouldn’t be further involved!

But it was vexing that several times that day—and afterwards—his thoughts turned involuntarily to the perplexing half-memory.

“Now, you sit down while I get tea, my dear,” Miss Coates said cheerfully. 'No, I don’t need any help and you certainly need to relax! Sit down in one of the armchairs and try to think of nothing at all! ”

Thankfully Rosamund sat down. That was easy enough, but to think of nothing—that was impossible! Too much had happened since she had started out so hopefully that morning.

She had laid her plans so carefully! Aunt Ruth, proprietress of one of London’s most exclusive dress salons, had gone to Paris for a week, leaving Rosamund in charge and with urgent instructions to make absolutely sure that every dress they had designed and created for one of the biggest weddings of the season was absolutely perfect. In fact, everything went without a hitch, and in the evening Rosamund rang her aunt up at her hotel and reported to that effect.

“And I had quite a long talk afterwards at the reception with Mrs. Castleford,” she went on to say. “You know, the wife of the American financier. They expect to be over here for three months and I think she was genuinely interested. In fact, she asked me to make an appointment for you to see her next week.”

"Why me?” Ruth Hastings asked sharply. “Why not you, since you made the contact?”

“Because she’s the sort of person that doesn’t think she’s getting her money’s worth if she isn’t looked after by the head of a firm,” Rosamund explained, and instantly wondered if that didn’t sound too glib.

But Ruth accepted it without question, gave a few details of her own activities since she had left home and then asked suddenly—almost suspiciously:

“What are you going to do tomorrow with the salon closed?”

‘I've been thinking about taking a run into the country,” Rosamund replied. “I could do with a breath of fresh air. It’s stifling in London.”

All of which had been absolutely true—but it wasn’t the whole truth. She had said nothing about the shabby second-hand car she had bought or of the cheap clothes so different from the ones she usually wore. And most important of all, she had said nothing of her determination never to live or work with her aunt again. There was no point in doing so. She had tried so often to make her aunt understand how much she hated the life she was leading with all its cloying luxury, the over-heated, over-perfumed salon and the shallow, greedy women who patronised it, but without success. Aunt Ruth simply couldn’t or wouldn’t believe it.

To Ruth Hastings, her achievements in the world of fashion were all-satisfying. She revelled in success and the knowledge that she had fulfilled the ambitions which at one time had seemed so out of reach. She really enjoyed the work, too, and was completely blind to the fact that not all people are made in the same way. Of course Rosamund must feel as she did, and into the bargain, think herself lucky to benefit by someone else’s efforts instead of having to drudge through all those years of alternate hope and despair.

Rosamund sighed. You couldn’t convince a person like that that you
wanted
to make a personal effort, wanted, most desperately, to do your own thing even if you weren’t quite sure what that was. So, in the end, she’d decided that there was only one thing to do—go away and stay away until Aunt Ruth had to accept her decision.

The most important thing, of course, was to avoid a confrontation, and in order to do that, she had gone to extreme lengths. She had drawn quite a large sum of money from her bank account, sufficient to last long enough not to need to draw any more until Aunt Ruth was convinced. Even though it was most unlikely that the bank would divulge to her aunt where a cheque had been drawn, she wasn’t going to take even that small risk!

And now all her plans were wrecked by her own stupid carelessness. Without money what could she do except crawl back abjectly, convinced of her own stupidity and probably never again finding the courage to make the break.

She was not sorry when Miss Coates came back with an attractively laid tea-tray. For a little while she could try to forget her troubles and respond to the kindness that she was receiving.

Over the teacups Miss Coates did her best to put her visitor at her ease. She described life on the long boat with enthusiasm and not a little humour, poking fun at herself for the mistakes she had made at first. To her own surprise, Rosamund found herself compelled to smile and even laugh once or twice.

It was not until the tray was carried back to the galley and between them the washing up was done that her hostess asked what Rosamund had realised must be the inevitable question.

“Now, my dear, will you tell me all that you care to about yourself?”

Put that way, Rosamund found it easier to explain what had happened than she had when John Lindsay had crossed-questioned her. She was franker, too.

“Mr. Lindsay accused me of being a runaway. He thought—” she smiled faintly, “that it might be from Borstal—”

“How stupid of him,” Miss Coates said unflatteringly. “Quite apart from anything else, he had only to look at your hands. I doubt very much if a Borstal girl would have such beautifully manicured nails as you have!”

“Oh!” Rosamund gave a little start and looked frightened. “I didn’t think of that—how stupid of me!”

Miss Coates made no comment, but she stored the remark up for future consideration since she felt that it could be interpreted in more than one way.

“Go on, dear,” she encouraged.

Rosamund drew a long breath.

“He was wrong about Borstal or that I had run away from school. But he
was
right about me being a runaway.” She paused, looking doubtfully at Miss Coates.

“But you don’t want to tell me why or from what?” Miss Coates suggested. “Now listen to me, Rosamund. All of us need to escape from something or somebody at some time or other in our lives. Sometimes it’s a wise thing to do, sometimes not.
I
think I’m wise in spending as much time as I can down here. You see, I don’t like limelight very much and I detest being lionised—”

“Oh!” Rosamund leaned forward. “Why, of course, I should have remembered before. You’re the artist who painted that lovely portrait of Her Majesty the Queen! ”

“And a most enjoyable task that was!” Miss Coates nodded. “None the less, it had the effect of putting me in the public eye, which was advantageous in a financial sense, but—” she made a little grimace. “Perhaps it sounds rather affected, but to do decent work, one
has
to belong to oneself, and beyond a certain point too much publicity makes that impossible. So, except when I’m actually working on a portrait, I rusticate down here and paint watercolours of birds and water scenes. So far, though I’ve earned the name for being eccentric, no one has discovered my hideout—and I sincerely hope they never do!” And she looked gravely at Rosamund.

“No one ever will from me,” she promised earnestly. “And thank you for trusting me, Miss Coates.” She stopped short, feeling embarrassed.

“But though I’ve told you my secret, you’d still prefer not to tell me yours? All right, I accept that, but I would like you to answer one or two questions. For instance, are you married?”

“No, I’m not,” Rosamund met her eyes squarely. “Nor have I done anything against the law. It’s just that—” she paused and then took the plunge. “You run away from
lots of people. I’m running away from one. Someone I both live and work with. I—I’ve already told her several times that I want to break away and make a fresh start on my own, only she doesn’t understand—”

“Probably doesn’t want to,” Miss Coates suggested dryly. “I’ve met that sort. They see other people only as adjuncts to their own lives—most exhausting. Makes you feel absolutely drained of all personality.”

“You
do
understand,” Rosamund exclaimed gratefully. But do you, see that because it
is
just one person, I don’t want to say who it is?”

“Yes, I see that,” Miss Coates nodded, wondering whether the girl realised how much, in spite of her caution, she was actually giving away, “All the same, isn’t there a possibility of quite reasonable enquiries being lade, possibly by the police? After all, when an attractive girl just vanishes into the blue—”

“I left a letter which explained everything very clearly,” Rosamund assured her. “And I don’t think my— she would like the sort of publicity that an enquiry would ring—”

“Probably not,” Miss Coates agreed. “Well, that’s all right, then! Now, let’s be practical. About your purse. Do you remember the name of the garage where you got your petrol and where it was?”

“I didn’t notice the name and I’m not very sure of where it was. Marlborough was the last big town I’d gone through. It was some miles beyond that and it was on an open stretch of the road and on my side of it. Not very tight, but very well run.”

“Not, by any chance, by a very cheerful little man with shock of red hair? It was! Oh, splendid! I often stop there myself. What’s more, I’m pretty certain I’ve still got a bill somewhere for a small repair he did for me once. I'll hunt it out and then we’ll go to the village and ring through. I’ll go and hunt that bill at once—and there’s a letter I want to write to my next-door neighbour. No, not M
r.
Lindsay. On the other side, the
Rosebud.
His name is Robert Dexter. Another runaway, when he can manage it! I won’t be long.”

She went through to her sleeping cabin, found the bill without difficulty and then took a writing case from a drawer. For several moments she sat, frowning thoughtfully. Then, rapidly, she wrote:

“Dear Rob,

I don’t know if you’re planning to come down here this weekend, but if you possibly can, please do.

Something has happened which I find both startling and astonishing and I want to know whether you agree with me.

I don’t think you’ll feel you’ve wasted your time, but I must warn you that if you think as I do, you will be in for a shock. But please don’t show it
—
that’s important.

I’m sorry to be so mysterious, but you
must
judge for yourself.

Yours,

Alice.”

ROSAMUND waited anxiously while Miss Coates made the telephone call.

“Tom? Oh, good! Look, Tom, a young friend of mine—a fair-haired girl in a rather battered blue mini car—stopped at your garage this morning for petrol. She thinks she may have dropped her purse—she did?” Miss Coates made a thumbs-up sign to Rosamund, standing outside the telephone kiosk. “Splendid! Well, look, it’s rather late now to come to collect it. Tomorrow? About lunch time? Right! What? Yes, we’d like that! Thank you very much, Tom.”