"It is your son. His employer retreated into the further apartment, leaving the door ajar. Anna did not pause, but she looked over her shoulder with slightly lifted eyebrows. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. ‘Come, cry a truce. ” Ann Veronica was stung to helpless anger. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. Kneebone's habitation, the shutters of which were closed, and knocked at the door. Here was an instrument which might be of the greatest service to him in accomplishing his design. 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.
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