“Good heavens, Nicole, have they not come home?” cried the baron, a little startled, while the others were quivering with the thrill which permeated all the city from the exaggerated story of the first fugitives spreading.
“Why, no, my lord, no one has seen them.”
“They could not come home by the shortest road,” faltered the baron, trembling with spite at his pitiful line of reasoning falling to pieces.
There he stood, in the street, with Nicole whimpering, and an old valet, who had accompanied the Taverneys to town, lifting his hands to the sky.
“Oh, here comes Master Philip,” ejaculated Nicole, with inexpressible terror, for the young man was alone.
He ran up through the shades of evening, desperate, calling out as soon as he saw the gathering at the house door:
“Is my sister here?”
“We have not seen her—she is not here,” said Nicole. “Oh, heavens, my poor young mistress!” she sobbed.
“The idea of your coming back without her!” said the baron with anger the more unfair as we have shown how he quitted the scene of the disaster.
By way of answer he showed his bleeding face and his arm broken and hanging like a dead limb by his side.