Kate reeled against the wall. "Again?" she whispered.
"I done begged her not to, no more. I knowed he'd git her into trouble if she kep' it up.—Oh, I helped 'em, and toted notes for 'em, an' all, 'cause I liked to see her so happy—but I didn't never think it would come to this! I'd 'a' tol' you if I dared, Miss Kate, but I dassent, I dassent. She liked me—she kissed me once. Oh, oh, and now she's gone!"
Kate forced her stiff lips into speech. "This—has been going on for some time?"
"Yes'm, right smart. Ever since he was sick here. I took'n him a letter from her the day he went away."
Even in that moment, Kate's whirling brain did Channing justice. He had kept his word, the letter of it, at least. He had not sought Jacqueline. It was she who had sought him.
She was getting back her breath. "Now," she said, "where shall I find them?"
Mag's wails broke forth anew. "I dunno! Reckon it's too late. Oh, my Lordy! I took'n her bag to the Ruin before supper, and he was to come for her there at midnight. Reckon it's past that now. They've done gone!"
"Gone?" The word was a gasping cry. "Gone—where?"
"I dunno. The city, I reckon, or wherever he lives at.—Oh, my Gawd, lissen at that!" The wind struck the house a great buffet, and the thunder was rattling steadily as artillery now.
Kate's knees refused to support her. She held herself upright by clinging to the bed.