A girl—at my age—is grown-up. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. ‘But—’ ‘Nothing at all for you to worry your head over,’ said the captain, moving to try and usher her forth. “You are quite right, I think. But you must leave us now, dear Winny, Jack and I have something to settle between ourselves.
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