“I’m sorry my face is so unbearable. I had no thought when I saw you but anxiety. There’s been an accident. You haven’t even told me whether you’re hurt!”
“It wasn’t an accident,” said Fanchon. “The horse got down in the stream and wallowed. I had to get off to save myself, and when he came out he ran off.”
William lifted his eyes reluctantly to hers.
“That horse has just come in, Fanchon. I got a telephone as you came up the porch steps.”
She did not seem to grasp the significance of this. She put up a wandering hand and pushed back her damp hair.
“I can’t help it!” she said sharply. “It’s so—I never would have got here but for a motor. Some people—perfect strangers, too—were coming this way, and they brought me. We came faster than any horse could go.”
“Where were you? Where did the horse roll?”
“At Fanshawe’s Creek—you know, half-way to the Mountain Inn.”
William turned abruptly and walked across the room and back again.
“That wouldn’t take an hour and a half for a horse,” he remarked dryly. “It’s one o’clock, Fanchon.”