"Dear me, no. I'll do the coming; it's only 'when'?"
"To-morrow?" she suggested doubtfully. "You know, we 're all so upset. And Belle—" The dear girl nearly broke down. "Yes, do come," she murmured tearfully, "as early as you can; everything depends upon you, now."
I caught her hand. "Please don't worry," I whispered; "everything will come out right. I can't bear to see you suffer. Will eight o'clock be too early?"
"No."
"I 'll not say 'Be brave,' for you 're the bravest girl in the world; but please, please don't fret and worry. Here 's your coachman. Good-bye."
She smiled wanly. "I sha'n't," she said. "Good-bye—till to-morrow morning."
She pressed my hand and ran lightly out.
Maillot now came over to where I was standing. He was very pale, his face was drawn with lines of suffering (more for Miss Belle than on his own account, beyond doubt), but his manner was quite composed. In fact, his demeanor was more subdued—chastened, as it were—than I had seen it at any time during our brief acquaintance.
"Well, it's over," he remarked bitterly.
"Don't be an ass," I returned. "If you are innocent, nothing worse can happen."