"I should be more than delighted, miss."
Billie whisked into view an envelope which had been concealed in the recesses of her dress.
"Do you know the country about here, well, Webster?"
"Within a certain radius, not unintimately, Miss. I have been for several enjoyable rambles since the fine weather set in."
"Do you know the place where there is a road leading to Havant, and another to Cosham? It's about a mile down...."
"I know the spot well, miss."
"Well, straight in front of you when you get to the sign-post there is a little lane...."
"I know it, miss," said Webster. "A delightfully romantic spot. What with the overhanging trees, the wealth of blackberry bushes, the varied wild-flowers...."
"Yes, never mind about the wild-flowers now. I want you after lunch to take this note to a gentleman you will find sitting on the gate at the bottom of the lane...."
"Sitting on the gate, miss. Yes, miss."
"Or leaning against it. You can't mistake him. He is rather tall and.... Oh, well, there isn't likely to be anybody else there, so you can't make a mistake. Give him this, will you?"
"Certainly, miss. Er--any message?"
"Any what?"
"Any verbal message, miss?"
"No, certainly not! You won't forget, will you, Webster?"
"On no account whatever, miss. Shall I wait for an answer?"
"There won't be any answer," said Billie, setting her teeth for an instant. "Oh, Webster!"
"Miss?"
"I can rely on you to say nothing to anybody?"
"Most undoubtedly, miss. Most undoubtedly!"
"Does anybody know anything about a feller named S. Marlowe?" enquired Webster, entering the kitchen. "Don't all speak at once! S. Marlowe. Ever heard of him?"
He paused for a reply, but nobody had any information to impart.
"Because there's something jolly well up! Our Miss B. is sending me with notes for him to the bottom of lanes."
"And her engaged to young Mr. Mortimer!" said the scullery-maid shocked. "The way they go on! Chronic!" said the scullery-maid.
"Don't you go getting alarmed. And don't you," added Webster, "go shoving your ear in when your social superiors are talking. I've had to speak to you about that before. My remarks were addressed to Mrs. Withers here."
He indicated the cook with a respectful gesture.
"Yes, here's the note, Mrs. Withers. Of course, if you had a steamy kettle handy, in about half a moment we could ... but no, perhaps, it's wiser not to risk it. And, come to that, I don't need to unstick the envelope to know what's inside here. It's the raspberry, ma'am, or I've lost all my power to read the human female countenance. Very cold and proud-looking she was! I don't know who this S. Marlowe is, but I do know one thing; in this hand I hold the instrument that's going to give it him in the neck, proper! Right in the neck, or my name isn't Montagu Webster!"