“So am I,” said Amethyst. “But what would become of Carrie’s money if auntie were there alone? And I have never been kind to poor Charles, nor had any mercy for him. I must go, Una. Only try to keep it all from Lucian; he will hurt himself with worrying about me.”
“If Sylvester Riddell could go with you!”
“Oh no. Then Lucian would hear about it. Besides—oh no, Una, no one ought to come.”
“Give my love to Charles,” said Una, kissing her. “Oh dear, what is to become of us all?”
“I don’t know,” said Amethyst; “I’ve got to catch the train first.”
The train was caught, and off they set, with poor Carrie’s little roll of gold pieces carefully secreted in Amethyst’s dress. She was sick with fear of what she might find. To see evil which has been only heard of is a frightful thing, and she squeezed Lucian’s ring through her glove, as if it gave her a sense of guardianship.
No Lord Haredale appeared at the station, which seemed ominous and depressing. They took a carriage, and with some difficulty found the Bella Italia, the hotel from which his telegram had been dated, the driver declining to believe that the ladies could want to go there.
It was a second-rate little place, with noisy voices coming from the open windows of the coffee-room, and from the restaurant in the garden outside.
The two ladies got out of their carriage and walked in, and Amethyst in careful broken Italian asked for Lord Haredale, and for the English gentleman who was there very ill.
The host came forward, and answered her with smiles, shrugs and gestures, and a flood of incomprehensible words.