“I’m sure that her ladyship will be at home for you, m’lady. But I’ll go and ascertain.”
Marguerite ran to the door and with joyful eagerness tore it open.
“Suzanne!” she called “my little Suzanne! I thought you were in London. Come up quickly! In the boudoir—yes. Oh! what good fortune hath brought you?”
Suzanne flew into her arms, holding the friend whom she loved so well close and closer to her heart, trying to hide her face, which was wet with tears, in the folds of Marguerite’s kerchief.
“Come inside, my darling,” said Marguerite. “Why, how cold your little hands are!”
She was on the point of turning back to her boudoir, drawing Lady Ffoulkes by the hand, when suddenly she caught sight of Sir Andrew, who stood at a little distance from her, at the top of the stairs.
“Sir Andrew!” she exclaimed with unstinted gladness.
Then she paused. The cry of welcome died on her lips, leaving them dry and parted. She suddenly felt as if some fearful talons had gripped her heart and were tearing at it with sharp, long nails; the blood flew from her cheeks and from her limbs, leaving her with a sense of icy numbness.
She backed into the room, still holding Suzanne’s hand, and drawing her in with her. Sir Andrew followed them, then closed the door behind him. At last the word escaped Marguerite’s parched lips:
“Percy! Something has happened to him! He is dead?”