And by the light of the midnight stars, they went down the dark street together.
[CHAPTER V.]
"WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH HER?"
Scarcely had the echo of the front door, ceased to resound through the mansion, when the Madam entered the holy place from which Arthur and Herman had just departed. Her step was vigorous and firm, as she crossed the threshold; her face flashed with mingled rage and triumph.
"He will return to-morrow at ten o'clock!" she cried, and burst into a fit of laughter, which shook her voluminous bust,—"there's two ways of tellin' that story, my duck." (The Madam, as in all her vivacious moments, grew metaphorical.) "Catch a weasel asleep! Fool who with your tin 'fip!' I guess I haven't been about in the world all this while, to be out-generaled by a snip of a boy like that!"
Louder laughed the Madam, until her bust shook again—and in the midst of her calm enjoyment she saw—the desk and the broken lock. Her laughter stopped abruptly. She darted forward, like a tigress rushing on her prey. She seized the lamp and raised the lid, and saw the contents of the desk,—packages of letters, mysterious instruments and singular vials, all,—all,—save the red book.
The Madam could not believe her eyes. Rapidly she searched the desk, displacing its contents and researching every nook and corner, but her efforts were fruitless. There were packages of letters, mysterious vials, and instruments as mysterious, but,—the red book was not there.
For the first time in her life, the Madam experienced a sensation of fear,—unmingled fear,—and for the first time saw ruin open like a chasm at her very feet. She grew pale, sank helplessly in her arm-chair, and sat there like a statue,—rather like an image of imperfectly finished wax-work,—her visage blank as a sheet of paper.
"Gone,—gone," the words escaped from her lips, "ruined, undone!"