She laughed a rippling laugh. "I do not know, but I think the study of nature, the proper study of man."
"Others,—with a less poetic soul, doubtless—seem to differ from you. I think Pope did. But you love nature, and do not care for man."
Her pearly teeth saw the light.
When Adèle bade good-night to Frank that evening, a strange presentiment of coming evil overcame her.
She walked inside her father's house. When she entered the kitchen she was surprised at finding it empty. The lamp was on the table. It was lighted. Beside it was an empty mug. She lighted a candle, went into the parlour, and divested herself of her hat and jacket, thinking her father would soon return.
She did not feel at ease, however. Every other minute she turned round nervously, half afraid of finding someone in the room. Where could her father be? She grew anxious. Going at the foot of the stairs, she called out: "Father, father."
Not a sound, save that of her voice which sounded funereally.
She went to the door, opened it, and looked outside. Everything was still. All at once she heard something. It was not a shout, it was a scream, a shriek, an entreaty; it came again, much louder this time, she could distinctly hear the word: "Help."
She distinguished that voice; there was no mistaking it, she would have discerned its sound amongst ten thousand. This voice was Frank's. He had cried, he had implored, there was but one thing for her to do—to run to his aid.
Without even taking the trouble to fetch her hat, she hastily ran in the direction from whence the sound came.