She looked up in amazement. There stood Mr. Fletcher, wrapped in his long dark cloak, his black hair dripping with the rain, and his eyes like blazing fires!
"Delia," he repeated, "what are you doing here?"
Delia had once feared Mr. Fletcher more than any other living being, but now he seemed to her like an angel sent from Heaven to her rescue.
She threw herself at his feet, and exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Fletcher, save me, take me home!"
Mr. Fletcher raised her without a word, drew her shawl around her, and taking her arm within his, prepared to leave the room, when the baggage master interfered—"What's the case, Mr. Fletcher? Anything wrong? The French gentleman said the lady was crazy."
"The French gentleman is a scoundrel, and you may tell him I say so," was Mr. Fletcher's reply. "This lady is under my protection, and you know me."
"All right!" returned the baggage master, as if it were all in the ordinary course of business. "I am glad you came in, for I had begun to suspect something wrong. One of the seminary girls, I suppose," he continued to himself, as the pair left the room. "The rascal! I should like to give him a thrashing myself."
In about ten minutes, Mr. Hugo returned. His surprise and wrath at finding Delia gone, may be imagined.
"Oh! Mr. Fletcher, save me!"