She found herself in a small well-hall, with the stairs running up to a couple of galleries on the first and second storeys. The place was lit by swinging lamps, and had several doors leading out of it on one side. On the other an archway afforded a glimpse of a comfortable coffee-room.

Out of this apartment the landlord came bustling, a lean man with a sharp face, and a habit of sniffing. He came bowing, and rubbing his dry hands together, but when he saw that his visitor was quite unattended, his manner changed, and he asked her in a curt way what she wanted.

She was unaccustomed to meet with incivility, and instinctively she stiffened. She replied in her quiet, well-bred voice, that she had alighted from the stage, and required a bed-chamber.

Like the guard, the landlord eyed her up and down, but in his glance was no friendliness, but a distinct look of contempt. Solitary females travelling by stage were not wont to put up at his inn, which was a house catering for the nobility and gentry. He asked warily whether her abigail was outside, with her baggage, and perceived at once, from her sudden flush and downcast eyes, that she had no abigail, and probably no baggage either.

Until this humiliating moment Miss Challoner had not considered her extremely barren state. She knew quite well in what a light she must appear, and it took all her resolution not to turn and run ignominiously away.

Her fingers clasped her reticule tightly. She lifted her head, and said calmly: “There has been an accident, and my baggage is unhappily left behind me at Dijon. I expect it to-morrow. Meanwhile I require a bed-chamber, and some supper. A bowl of broth in my room will suffice.”

It was quite evident that the landlord did not place any belief in the existence of Miss Challoner’s baggage. “You have come to the wrong inn,” he said. “There is a place down the street for the likes of you.”

He encountered a look from Miss Challoner’s fine grey eyes that made him suddenly nervous lest her story might after all be true. But at this moment he was reinforced by the arrival of his wife, a dame as stout as he was lean, who demanded to know what the young person wanted.

He repeated Miss Challoner’s story to her. The dame set her arms akimbo, and gave vent to a short bark of laughter. “A very likely tale,” she said. “You’d best be off to the Chat Griz, my girl. The Rayon d’Or does not honour persons of your quality. Baggage in Dijon indeed!”

It did not seem as though an appeal to this scornful lady would be of avail. Miss Challoner said steadily: “I find you impertinent, my good woman. I am English, travelling to rejoin my friends in the neighbourhood, and although I am aware that the loss of my baggage must appear strange to you — ”

“Vastly strange, mademoiselle, I assure you. The English are all mad, sans doute, but we have had many of them at the Rayon d’Or, and they are not so mad that they permit their ladies to journey alone on the diligence. Come, now, be off with you! There is no lodging for you here, I can tell you. Such a tale! If you are English, you will be some serving-maid, very likely dismissed for some fault. The Chat Griz will give you a bed.”

“The guard on the stage warned me what kind of a hostelry that is,” replied Miss Challoner. “If you doubt my story, let me tell you that my name is Challoner, and I have sufficient money at my disposal to pay for your bed-chamber.”

“Take your money elsewhere!” said the woman brusquely. “A nice thing it would be if we were to house young persons of your kind! Don’t stand there staring down your nose at me, my girl! Be off at once!”

A soft voice spoke from the stairway. “One moment, my good creature,” it said.

Miss Challoner looked up quickly. Down the stairs, very leisurely, was coming a tall gentleman dressed in a rich suit of black cloth with much silver lacing. He wore a powdered wig, and a patch at the corner of his rather thin mouth, and there was the hint of a diamond in the lace at his throat. He carried a long ebony cane in one hand, and a great square emerald glinted on one of his fingers. As he descended into the full light of the lamps Miss Challoner saw that he was old, although his eyes, directly surveying her from under their heavy lids, were remarkably keen. They were of a hard grey, and held a cynical gleam.

That he was a personage of considerable importance she at once guessed, for not only was the landlord bowing till his nose almost touched his knee, but the gentleman had in every languid movement the air of one born to command. He reached the foot of the stairs, and came slowly towards the group by the door. He did not seem to be aware of the landlord’s existence; he was looking at Miss Challoner, and it was to her and in English that he addressed himself. “You appear to be in some difficulty, madam. Pray let me know how I can serve you.”

She curtsied with pretty dignity. “Thank you, sir. All I require is a lodging for the night, but I believe I must not trouble you.”

“It does not seem to be an out-of-the-way demand,” said the gentleman, raising his brows. “You will no doubt inform me where the hitch lies.”

His air of calm authority brought a smile quivering to Miss Challoner’s lips. “I repeat, sir, you are very kind, but I beg you will not concern yourself with my stupid affairs.”

His cold glance rested on her with a kind of bored indifference that she found disconcerting, and oddly familiar. “My good child,” he said, with a touch of disdain in his voice, “your scruples, though most affecting, are quite needless. I imagine I might well be your grandfather.”

She coloured a little, and replied, with a frank look: “I beg your pardon, sir. Indeed, my scruples are only lest I should be thought to importune a stranger.”

“You edify me extremely,” he said. “Will you now have the goodness to inform me why this woman finds herself unable to supply you with a bed-chamber?”

“I can scarcely blame her, sir,” said Miss Challoner honestly. “I have no maid, and no baggage, and I arrived by the stage coach. My situation is excessively awkward, and I was very foolish not to have realized sooner what an odd appearance I must present.”

“The loss of your baggage is, I fear, beyond my power to remedy, but a bed-chamber I can procure for you at once.”

“I should be very grateful to you, sir, if you would.”

The Englishman turned to the landlord, who was humbly awaiting his pleasure. “Your stupidity, my good Boisson, is lamentable,” he remarked. “You will escort this lady to a suitable chamber.”

“Yes, monseigneur, yes indeed. It shall be as monseigneur wishes. But — ”

“I do not think,” said the Englishman sweetly, “that I evinced any desire to converse with you.”

“No, monseigneur,” said the landlord. “If — if mademoiselle would follow my wife upstairs? The large front room, Celestine!”

Madame said resentfully: “What, the large room?”

The landlord gave her a push towards the stairs. “Certainly the large one. Go quickly!”

The Englishman turned to Miss Challoner. “You bespoke supper, I believe. I shall be honoured by your presence at my own table. Boisson will show you the way to my private salle.”

Miss Challoner hesitated. “A bowl of soup in my chamber, sir — ”

“You will find it more entertaining to sup with me,” he said. “Let me allay your qualms by informing you that I have the pleasure of your grandfather’s acquaintance.”

Miss Challoner grew rather pale. “My grandfather?” she said quickly.

“Certainly. You said, I think, that your name is Challoner. I have known Sir Giles any time these forty years. Permit me to tell you that you have a great look of him.”

In face of this piece of information Miss Challoner abandoned her first impulse to disclaim all relationship with Sir Giles. She stood feeling remarkably foolish, and looking rather worried.

The gentleman smiled faintly. “Very wise,” he commented, with uncanny perspicacity. “I should never believe that you were not his granddaughter. May I suggest that you follow this worthy female upstairs? You will join me at your convenience.”

Miss Challoner had to laugh. “Very well, sir,” she said, and curtsied, and went off in the wake of the landlady.

She was allotted what she guessed to be one of the best chambers, and a serving-maid brought her water in a brass can. She emptied her reticule on to the dressing-table, and somewhat ruefully inspected the collection thus displayed. Luckily she had slipped a clean tucker into it, and when carefully arranged round her shoulders this concealed the tear in her gown. She combed out her hair, and dressed it again, washed her face and hands, and went downstairs to the hall.

The presence of a countryman had been providential, but that he should be acquainted with her grandfather, and knew her identity, was a calamity. Miss Challoner had no idea what she was going to say to him, but some explanation was clearly called for.

The landlord was awaiting her at the foot of the staircase, and he met her with a respect as marked as his late contempt. He led the way to one of the doors leading from the hall, and ushered her into a large parlour.

Covers were laid on the table in the centre of the room, and the apartment was lit by clusters of wax candles in solid chandeliers. Miss Challoner’s new friend was standing by the fireplace. He came forward to meet her, and taking her hand at once remarked on its coldness. She confessed that she was still feeling chilly, and told him that the stage had been full of draughts. She went to the fire, and spread out her hands to the blaze. “I find this very welcome, sir,” she said, smiling up at him. “You are indeed kind to invite me to sup with you.”

He surveyed her somewhat enigmatically. “You shall let me know later how I may serve you further,” he said. “Will you not be seated?”

She walked to the table, and sat down at his right hand. A liveried servant came in noiselessly, and set soup before them. He would have stayed behind his master’s chair, but a slight sign dismissed him.

Miss Challoner drank her soup, realizing suddenly that it was many hours since she had partaken of food. She was relieved to find that her host did not seem to require an immediate explanation of her peculiar circumstances, but talked gently instead on a number of impersonal subjects. He had a caustic way with him, which Miss Challoner found entertaining. There was often a twinkle in her eye, and since her knowledge was sufficiently wide (for, unlike her friend Juliana, she had not wasted her time at school), she was able not only to listen, but to contribute her own share to the conversation. By the time the sweetmeats were set on the table she and her host were getting on famously, and she had quite lost any shyness that she might at first have felt. He encouraged her to talk, sitting back in his chair, sipping his wine, and watching her. To begin with, she had found his scrutiny a little trying, for his face told her nothing of what he might be thinking, but she was not the woman to be easily unnerved, and she looked back at him, whenever occasion demanded, with her usual friendly calm.

She could not be rid of the conviction that she had met him before, and the effort to remember where brought a crease between her brows. Observing it, her host said: “Something troubles you, Miss Challoner?”

She smiled. “No, sir, hardly that. Perhaps it is ridiculous of me to suppose it, but I have an odd feeling that I have met you before. I have not?”

He set his glass down, and stretched out his hand for the decanter. “No, Miss Challoner, you have not.”

She was tempted to ask his name, but since he was so very much older than herself she did not care to appear in the least familiar. If he wished her to know it no doubt he would tell her.

She laid down her napkin, and rose. “I have been talking a great deal, I fear,” she said. “May I thank you, sir, for a pleasant evening, and for your exceeding kindness, and so bid you good-night?”

“Don’t go,” he said. “Your reputation is quite safe, and the night is still young. Without wishing to seem idly curious, I should like to hear why you are journeying unprotected, through France. Do you think I am entitled to an explanation?”

She remained standing beside her chair. “Yes, sir, I do think it,” she answered quietly. “For my situation must seem indeed strange. But unhappily I am not able to give you the true explanation, and since I do not wish to repay your kindness with lies it is better that I should offer none. May I wish you good-night, sir?”