Dominic came an hour later. A sulky dashed up the street and stopped outside the house. Léonie flung down her cards, and ran to the window, pulling aside the heavy curtains, but was too late to catch a glimpse of her son. A groom was already driving the sulky away, and inside the house a door slammed, and Fletcher’s discreet voice sounded. A sharper one answered; a quick step trod in the hall, and Vidal came into the library.
He was pale, and his eyes were frowning and tired. Mud had generously splashed his breeches and plain buff coat, and his neckcloth was crumpled and limp. “ Ma mère!” he said, surprise in his voice.
Léonie momentarily forgot her mission. She went to him, grasping the lapels of his coat. “Oh, you have not killed yourself! But tell me, Dominique, at once, did you get there in the time?”
His hands covered hers with a gesture rather mechanical.
“Yes, of course. But what are you doing here? Rupert, too? Is anything amiss?”
“Anything amiss,” exploded Rupert. “That’s rich! ’Pon my soul, that’s rich! Oh, there’s naught amiss, never fear! You’ve only killed that fellow Quarles and set the whole town in a roar.”
“Dead, is he?” said his lordship. He put Léonie from him, and walked to the table. “Well, I thought as much.”
“No, no, he is not dead!” Léonie said vehemently. “You shan’t say so, Rupert!”
“It don’t matter what I say,” responded my lord. “If he ain’t dead now he will be in a day’s time. You fool, Vidal.”
The Marquis had poured himself out a glass of wine, but was looking down at the red liquid instead of drinking it. “Runners after me?”