For here she is sure of not being heard.

It is the unoccupied wing of the castle of Whitehall.
Nobody watches her here.
On, then, on, adown that corridor, descending those stairs.

There she stops before a door leading into the summer-house.

She puts her ear to the door, and listens.

Then she claps her hands three times.
The sound is reechoed from the other side.
"Oh, he is there, he is there!" Forgotten now are her cares, forgotten her pains and tears.