“Oh yes, but—”
“The best London can give,” he whispered. “When I have her back at home. And you understand that was nonsense which I said about striking him?”
The bag was on his arm, with his hand pushed far through, as he went back to the door, and signalled to a man to come in. Then seeing that this removal was inevitable, Cornel rapidly replaced the cloak well round the insensible figure, and rearranged the head.
“Don’t—don’t waste time,” said the Conte impatiently, and signing to the man, the latter bent down and lifted the motionless figure as easily as if it had been a child.
“Be careful, my friend. A sad accident. Be careful. Mind.”
He opened the door for the man to pass through, and Cornel followed them, to listen to the heavy descending steps, till all was silent. Then came the rattle of wheels, and she knew that they were gone.
Closing the door of the studio, she walked across it, dropped upon her knees, and clasped her hands.
“Have I done rightly?” she murmured. “I don’t know. It seems like madness now.” Then a weary sigh, as she laid her head against the door leading to the chamber. “Armstrong! what I have suffered for your sake!”