“Ask Sarah or William to fetch a cab! And to have my boxes placed on it! There is a douceur for them,” said Harriet, placing a handsome sum in Miss Wynward’s hand.
“And you will not see the Baroness again?” asked her companion.
“No! no! for God’s sake, no. I could not trust myself! I can never look upon her face again!”
In a few minutes the hired vehicle rolled away from the door, bearing Harriet Brandt and her possessions to the Langham Hotel, and Miss Wynward returned to the room where Bobby lay. Madame Gobelli stood exactly where she had left her, gazing at the corpse. There were no tears in her eyes—only the continuous shaking of her huge limbs.
“Come!” said Miss Wynward, not unkindly, “you had better sit down, and let me bring you a glass of wine! This terrible shock has been too much for you.”
But the Baroness only pushed her hand away, impatiently.
“Who was that driving away just now?” she enquired.
“Miss Brandt! You have driven her from the house with your cruel and unnecessary accusations. No one liked Bobby better than she did!”
“Has the doctor arrived?”
“I expect so! I hear the Baron’s voice in the hall now!”