But time crept on. Marise was half an hour late: then three-quarters. What could have happened? Had that monster kidnapped the poor child?
At the thought, Mums experienced the sensation of cold water slowly trickling through her spine. "What shall I do?" she wondered. And her mind turned to the thought—the terrible thought—of applying to the police. If she took this extreme step, what would be the result? Could a man be arrested for abducting his own wife?
As she writhed and sighed helplessly on a sofa in sight of the mantel clock, Céline's familiar tap sounded at the door, and the Frenchwoman came in. Mrs. Sorel's anguished eyes saw that she looked pale and excited. Her own heart seemed to rise and shrug itself in her breast, then collapse sickeningly upon other organs.
"For Heaven's sake, where is Mademoiselle?" she panted.
"Ah, Madame," sighed Céline, "we must speak of Mademoiselle no more."
"Why—why?" broke in the distracted mother.
"But, because she is now indeed 'Madame'! She is with—her husband."
"Where?" gasped Mrs. Sorel.
"In their suite. A suite of great magnificence."
The unhappy Mums staggered to her feet, among falling cushions.