"We cannot be absolutely certain of anything yet," Jem said, in his quietest manner. "I want you to understand this—not to be sure, until we really know. Still, I am afraid things do look bad. I sent a telegram to Melbourne the day you came away, asking whether or no they had started, and the answer has been unaccountably delayed. It ought to have arrived in a few hours, and I did not get it till this morning. But—"
"Yes! Yes! But—!" repeated Jean hoarsely. "Go on!"
"It is very short—only two words, and no particulars given. 'Both off!'—that is all it says. Whether by long sea or by Suez we cannot tell. There is no mention of the 'Spanish Gipsy.' I am disappointed to hear so little, and I have sent a second telegram asking for more information. It ought to come quickly—but meantime I hardly felt that it would be right to delay telling you—or at least Mrs. Villiers—what I had heard. So I came away at once. If only I could have brought something better!"
"Both! Both at once! Oh, it can't be! Not both!"
Evelyn's sobs were distressing: but Jean shed no tears. She looked bewildered.
"Impossible! Not both! Evelyn, don't cry so! What is the good? They will come home. It couldn't be—both of them!" Then to Jem—"We must go back at once. I can't stay here. You will take us—will you not? We could reach Dieppe in time—for the night-boat, I mean. I'll help Anderson. Evelyn needn't touch a thing. Only please not to stay here. Evelyn dear, don't let us."
She wrung her hands together, with a strange forlorn gesture, unlike Jean.
"Don't talk to me—about that, I mean! Don't pity me! We must not stop to think of anything—only just get off—and then—I don't want water, Jem! What is that for? You don't suppose I'm hysterical, do you? But I'll drink some, if you like. It doesn't matter. I only want to get away as fast—as fast as possible. And then—Evelyn, do, do stop crying! I don't know how to bear it. And what is the use? They must come home! It couldn't be—both of them! Don't hold me, please. I want to go."
"One word first! Jean, listen to me. The Mrs. Parkinson who wrote last week about Cyril being engaged, has written again; and now she contradicts that—says it is untrue!"
Jean's face relaxed its rigidity.