There was no longer a coldness between Sir George Vernon and Captain Maynard; for it was the latter who had rescued the child.
As they parted on the Liverpool landing, hands were shaken, and cards exchanged—that of the English baronet accompanied with an invitation for the revolutionary leader to visit him at his country-seat; the address given upon the card, “Vernon Park, Sevenoaks, Kent.”
It is scarce necessary to say that Maynard promised to honour the invitation, and made careful registry of the address.
And now, more than ever, did he feel that strange forecast, as he saw the girlish face, with its deep blue eyes, looking gratefully from the carriage-window, in which Sir George, with his belongings, was whirled away from the wharf.
His gaze followed that thing of roseate hue; and long after it was out of sight he stood thinking of it.
It was far from agreeable to be aroused from his dreamy reverie—even by a voice friendly as that of Roseveldt!
The Count was by his side; holding in his hand a newspaper.
It was the Times of London, containing news to them of painful import.
It did not come as a shock. The journals brought aboard by the pilot—as usual, three days old—had prepared them for a tale of disaster. What they now read was only its confirmation.
“It’s true!” said Roseveldt, pointing to the conspicuous capitals: