“You didn’t see the face of the man who attacked us, then?” I asked eagerly.
“Not being possessed of the eyes of a heagle or a cat, sir, I did not,” Burdett replied. “Just you look round and see what sort of a night it is. Why, I can only just make out your outline, sir; although I’ve been looking at you this five minutes, I can’t see nothing of your face.”
“Neither did you, I suppose, Tom?” I asked the groom.
“No, sir; nothing except just a black figure. Good thing that you was neither of you hurt, sir.”
“I’m not sure that Mr. Marx isn’t,” I answered; “his face was bleeding a good deal. I wish he’d come back.”
Never did time pass so slowly as then, when we waited in the storm and rain for Mr. Marx’s return. It must have been nearly an hour before we heard him hailing us in the distance, and soon afterwards saw his figure loom out of the darkness close at hand. He was alone.
Splashed from head to foot with mud, hatless, and with great streaks of blood clotted upon his forehead and cheeks, he presented at first a frightful figure. But his face had lost that dreadful expression of numbed horror which had made it for a moment so terrible to me, and, as he sank back breathless and exhausted, among the cushions, he even attempted a smile.
“All in vain, you see,” he said. “Couldn’t find a single trace of anyone anywhere.”
“Are you much hurt, sir?” asked the groom, who was tying up the broken carriage-door.
“Not at all. Only a scratch. Tell Burdett to drive home as fast as he can now, Tom, there’s a good fellow.”