The question filled the cup of my alarm and amazement.
“There is some mistake, viscontesse. I have just landed from my yacht and have come straight here to see her.”
“For Heaven’s sake do not try to deceive me. I know what has happened. It was cruel and shameful. I have been beside myself with grief and suspense.”
“I give you my word of honour I have not seen Miralda since the day before yesterday.”
She stared at me as if unable to believe or even understand me. “Have not seen her?” she repeated hoarsely, after a pause. “Oh, that cannot be true.”
“I assure you most earnestly and solemnly that it is true.”
As the conviction of my sincerity was forced upon her, her expression changed. The trouble in her wide, staring eyes gave place to unmistakable terror inspired by her new thoughts. Suddenly she reeled, threw up her hands in despair, and then clasped them distractedly to her face and sank on a couch with a moan of anguish.
“Then she is arrested or dead. Heaven have mercy upon my dear, dear child,” she cried, a prey to overpowering emotion.
I was scarcely less alarmed by this most disconcerting news, and while the viscontesse was striving to recover some measure of self-command, I tried to realize all it meant and to think what to do.
“Don’t go, Mr. Donnington,” she said at length in the midst of her sobs; and I waited, tormented by a thousand vague fears.