"Oh, carn't you guess?" cried the woman on the ground, desperately looking up with tragic eyes out of a swollen, tear-stained face.
A mist came before Lynette's vision, and a sudden tremor shook her like a reed. She swayed as though the ground had heaved beneath her, but she would not fall. She choked back the cry that had risen in her throat. This was the time to act, not the time to weep for him. She knelt an instant by the woman on the ground, put her arms round her, kissed her wet cheek, and then rose up, pale and calm and collected, saying to W. Keyse:
"Take her to the Plas. Ask for Mrs. Pugh, the housekeeper. She is to prepare a room for you; you are to breakfast, and rest all day, and return to London by the night mail. Good-bye! God bless you both! I was going to him to-night at latest.... I am going to him now.... Pray that he is alive when I reach him! But he will be. God is good!"
Her face was transfigured by the new light that shone in it. She was strong, salient, resourceful—no longer the shy willowy girl. She was moving from them with her long swift step, when W. Keyse recovered himself.
"'Old 'ard! Beg pardon, ma'am! but 'ave you the spondulics?" He blushed at her puzzled look, and amended: "'Ave you money enough upon you to pay the railway-fare?"
She lifted a little gold-netted purse attached to her neck-chain.
"Five pounds. My maid is to follow. You know Marie? You will let her travel with you?"
"Righto! But you'll want a wrap, coat or shawl, or somethink. Midnight before you gits in—if you catch this next up-Express.... Watto! Give us 'old o' this 'ere, Missus! You can 'ave mine instead."
"Please, no! I need nothing ... nothing!" She stayed his savage attack on the buttons of Mrs. Keyse's green-and-yellow ulster by holding out her watch. "How much time have I left to catch the up-Express?"