“Thank g-goodness we’re there!” said Horatia, hurrying him along.
At the foot of the steps of her own house, she stopped and looked Sir Roland over dubiously. “I shall have to explain it all to you, I suppose. C-come and see me tomorrow. I mean today. Please remember to c-come! And if I’ve really k-killed Lord Lethbridge, don’t, don’t say anything about it!”
“Certainly not,” said Sir Roland. “Not a word.”
Horatia prepared to ascend the steps. “And you will go after P-Pelham and take him home, won’t you?”
“With the greatest pleasure on earth, ma’am,” said Sir Roland, with a profound bow. “Happy to be of service!”
Well, at least he doesn’t seem to be as drunk as Pelham, thought Horatia, as the sleepy porter opened the door to her knock. And if only I can make him understand how it all happened, and Pelham doesn’t do anything foolish, perhaps Rule need never know anything about this.
Slightly cheered by this reflection, she went up the stairs to her bedroom, where a lamp was burning. Picking up a taper, she lit the candles on her dressing-table, and sat down before the mirror, quite worn out. The plumes in her hair were draggled and limp; her corsage was torn, She put up her hand to it mechanically, and suddenly her eyes widened in horror. She had been wearing some of the Drelincourt jewels—a set of pearls and diamonds, ear-rings, brooch and bracelets. The ear-rings were there, the bracelets still on her wrists, but the brooch had gone.
Her mind flew back to her struggle in Lethbridge’s arms, when her lace had been torn. She stared at her own image in the glass. Under the Serkis rouge she had turned deathly pale. Her face puckered; she burst into tears.
Chapter Fifteen
Nothing intervening to cause the Viscount to swerve from his purpose, he pursued a somewhat erratic course back to Half-Moon Street. Finding the door of Lethbridge’s house open, as Horatia had left it, he walked in without ceremony. The door into the saloon was also ajar, and lights shone. The Viscount put his head into the room and looked round.