"
"Fibs! I can't believe it."
By-and-by she came to him.
"Why cannot we be friends, Mr. Purling? It pains me to be hated as you
hate me."
"You are really quite mistaken," Harold began.
"I am ready to prove my friendship. I know all about Miss
Driver--there!"
"Do you know where she is at this present moment?" Harold asked,
eagerly.
"You really wish to know? Your mother will tell me, I daresay. How
hard hit you must be! But there is my hand on it. You shall have all
the help that I can give."
Next day she told him.
"Miss Driver is at Harbridge."
"In service?"
"No; at home. They live there. Her father is a Custom-house officer."
That evening Harold informed his mother that important business called
him away. She remonstrated. How could he leave the house while Miss
Fanshawe was still there? What was the business? At least he might
tell his mother; or it might wait. She could not allow him to leave.
Mere waste of words; Harold was off next morning to Harbridge, and
Phillipa reported progress to her co-conspirator.
"It promises well," said Gilly. "I may be able to muzzle that
scoundrel after all."
CHAPTER V.
A quaint old red-sandstone town; the river-harbour crowded with small
craft, but now and again, like a Triton among the minnows, a
timber-brig or a trading-barque driven in by stress of weather.
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