Gabrielle looked round in wondering perplexity, repeating the words again.
"He has gone!"
Old Pierre's eager face lengthened.
"Mademoiselle?" he faltered.
Gabrielle stood still, her hands clasped together, eyes deepening with anxiety.
"I can't understand it," she cried. "It was here, just here; and he promised to await your coming."
"Perhaps he wearied at the delay," suggested Michael Berrington, "and has wandered farther down the path."
"I do not think he would, and we have not been very long. Still, we can look. Where does the path lead, Pierre?"
"Only to the wicket, Mamselle, and then out on to the moor."
"We can go to the wicket then. He would not have strayed beyond."