Hour after hour crept by. Once a messenger arrived, with a pencil-note from Colonel Baron to his wife—"Do not sit up if we are late. We are doing what we can. I cannot persuade Denham to go back."
Not sit up! Neither Mrs. Baron nor Lucille could dream of doing anything else. This suspense drew them together; and Lucille found herself to be one with the Barons in their trouble.
Nine o'clock, ten o'clock, and at length eleven o'clock struck. Soon after came a sound of footsteps—not of eager boyish steps. No Roy came bounding into the room. Lucille had found fault with him that afternoon for impulsiveness, but now from her very heart she would have welcomed his merry rush. Only Colonel Baron and Ivor entered.
The Colonel's face was heavily overclouded; while Denham's features were rigid as iron, and entirely without colour.
"Roy?" whispered Mrs. Baron.
Deep silence answered the unspoken question. Colonel Baron stood with folded arms, gazing at his wife. Denham moved two or three paces away, and rested one arm on the back of a tall chair, as if scarcely able to keep himself upright.
"Roy?" repeated Mrs. Baron, her voice sharpened and thinned. "You have not brought—Roy."
A single piercing cry rang out. She stopped the sound abruptly, with one quick indrawing of her breath, and waited.
Colonel Baron tried to speak, and no sound came. Denham remained motionless, not even attempting to raise his eyes.
"Oui," Lucille said restlessly. "Il est—il est—"