"I don't know.
She had some money, and took a small black bag with her.
She said when she got settled she would write here and let me know where she was, on condition that I did not tell you."
"She has every reason to.
Poor, miserable girl! to be an outcast, and now to leave her only refuge," he sighed and shook his head.
Giles all the time had been watching Portia, whose face bore an expression of obstinacy worthy of a mule.
"Did this scheme for Anne's departure include the masquerade you have indulged in?"
"It is my own idea," she retorted defiantly. "Anne wished to get away without my father knowing, so I stopped in her room and pretended to be Anne.
The servants were deceived, as I knew exactly how to imitate her voice.
I pulled down the blind, so that no one should see who I was.
Only you could have guessed the truth."
"How is that?"
"Because you love her."
Giles thought this a strange speech for the heavy-looking girl to make.
"Is that an original remark on your part?" he asked.
"No," she confessed candidly; "I suggested to Anne that I should pass myself off as her, and so give her a longer time to get away.
She said that I might deceive the servants and my father, but that I could never deceive you, because you loved her.
But I had a good try," continued Portia, nodding her red head triumphantly. "When my father spoke your name at the door I thought I would try."
"Well, you have done so only to fail," responded Ware coolly. "For the moment I was deceived, but you forgot how to manage your voice, and, moreover, your explanation was too elaborate.
But how is it you dare to confess, as Anne, that she killed the girl?"
"Anne did kill Daisy Kent!"
"She did not."
"Yes, she did.
She confessed as much to father last night, and to me also.
She asked me to tell you so, that you might forget all about her.
I was going over to your place this very day to tell, but when father brought you in I thought I would pretend to be Anne and tell you in that way."
"Anne would have written, and——"
"No, she wouldn't," said Portia, eagerly. "She began to write a letter saying that she was guilty, but afterwards she thought it might fall into the hands of the police, and tore it up. She told me to let you know by word of mouth.
All she asks of you is that you will forget that she ever existed."
"Let her tell me that with her own lips," said Giles, groaning.
"Yes, Portia, tell Mr. Ware the place Anne has gone to."
Portia eyed her father with some anger.
"How can I tell when I don't know?
Anne never said where she was going.
I let her out by the back door just before dawn, and she went away.
I know no more."
"If she writes, you will let Mr. Ware know."
"I shan't," retorted the girl. "Anne wants him to forget her."
"That is impossible," said Giles, whose face was now haggard with the anguish of the moment; "but you must be my friend, Portia, and tell me.
Think how I suffer!"
"Think how she suffers, poor darling!" cried Portia, whose sympathies were all with Anne. "Don't ask me any more.
I shan't speak."
And speak she would not, although Giles cajoled and Franklin stormed.
Whatever could be said of Portia, she was very loyal to the outcast.
There was nothing for it but for Ware to depart.
And this he did.
What was the best thing to be done Giles did not very well know.
Anne was lost again, and he did not know where to look for her.
He could not bring himself to believe that she was guilty, in spite of her confession to Portia and Franklin.
"It's that blackguard of a father of hers over again," he thought, as he tramped moodily through the Priory park. "She is afraid lest his brother—her uncle—should denounce him, and has taken the crime on her own shoulders.