Lord Stuart saw his sister comfortably settled in the best suite of rooms at the Hôtel Français, then he set himself to work to find out the whereabouts of Norman de Vere.
It was an easy task, for the city was ringing with the story of the scandalous happenings at Verelands, and in a short time Lord Stuart was driving out to the negro cabin on the suburbs, where the ill, perhaps dying mother lay amid her humble surroundings, attended by her faithful maid and her half-distracted son.
The meeting between Lord Stuart and the author took place in the tidy but bare little kitchen, the only other room being the one where the invalid lay. It was a sad and sympathetic meeting, for Lord Stuart was awed by Norman’s changed and haggard looks. His face was pale and wan, his beautiful dark eyes heavy with watching and unshed tears, his sensitive lips trembled with grief, and silver threads shone in the wavy locks that a month ago were dark as the raven’s wing.
Lord Stuart pressed his cold, nervous hand with the warmth of a brother.
“Be of good cheer, my friend. ‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’” he said, hopefully.
“You do not know all,” Norman answered, despairingly.
“Yes; I have been to Verelands. I have seen Camille, and heard the whole story from her lips.”
They sat down together and talked as old friends, sadly, earnestly. Norman told him that his mother was so ill that her death might be expected at any time.
“Doctor Hall has told me that the crisis of her disease will come to-night,” he said. “A few hours now will decide her fate. Oh, my God! if my poor mother dies of the treatment received at the hands of that remorseless fiend, I believe that I shall go mad with the horror of it.”
“We will hope and pray for the best,” Lord Stuart said, deeply moved, and added: “I will come and watch with you to-night.”