“You are here then, after all!”
Charmed to see how she greeted me, I had not the heart to tell her that her peril was not past; nor did she give me the opportunity, for went on directly:
“And you are wounded? But not badly, not badly, Mr. Aycon?”
“Who told you I was wounded?”
“Why, the duke. He said that you had been shot by a thief, and were very badly hurt; and—and—” She stopped, blushing.
(“Where is he?” I remembered the words; my forecast of their meaning had been true.)
“And did what he told you,” I asked softly, “make you leave the convent and come to find me?”
“Yes,” she answered, taking courage and meeting my eyes. “And then you were not here, and I thought it was a trap.”
“You were right; it was a trap. I came to find you at the convent, but you were gone: only by the chance of meeting with a friend who saw the duke’s carriage standing here have I found you.”
“You were seeking for me?”