"You must hurry. You have been traced——"
"Never fear; I shall hurry. But, before I go, Sheard, take this envelope. It is the last 'scoop' that I have to offer to the Gleaner, but it is the biggest of all! Good-bye."
"Do I understand that you are leaving England?"
So sincere was the emotion in the pressman's voice that Séverac Bablon's own had changed when he replied:
"We may never meet again; I cannot tell."
He laid his hands upon the other's shoulders in a characteristic gesture, and to Sheard, as he met the glance of those fine eyes, this was no criminal flying from justice; rather, a ruler of peoples, an enthusiast, a fanatic perhaps, but a royal man—and his friend.
"Good-bye!" said Séverac Bablon, and clasped Sheard's hand in both his own.
He turned to Zoe Oppner, who, very pale, was glancing back at the house.
"Good-bye again!"
A cab waited, and Séverac Bablon, lighting a cigarette, leapt in and was driven away. Sheard did not hear his directions to the man; and Zoe Oppner left him abruptly and ran into the house again. Before he had time to move, to collect his thoughts, a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder.