Elizabeth has no brother, but the remark brings back to me the necessity of self-command. “Very probably,” I answer, speaking with infinite difficulty. “What sort of looking gentleman was he?”
“He was a very tall and dark gentleman with a most peculiar nose—not quite like any nose that I ever saw before—and most singular eyes. Never have I seen a gentleman who at all resembled him.”
I sink into a chair, while a cold shudder creeps over me as I think of my poor child’s dream—of her fainting fit at Wiesbaden—of her unconquerable dread of and aversion from my departure. And this happened twelve days ago! I catch up my hat, and prepare to rush like a madman in pursuit.
“How did they go?” I ask incoherently; “by train?—driving?—walking?”
“They went in a carriage.”
“What direction did they take? Whither did they go?”
He shakes his head. “It is not known.”
“It must be known,” I cry, driven to frenzy by every second’s delay. “Of course the driver could tell; where is he?—where can I find him?”
“He did not belong to Lucerne, neither did the carriage; the gentleman brought them with him.”
“But madame’s maid,” say I, a gleam of hope flashing across my mind; “did she go with her?”