“By the way,” added Dunton, “this business seems to grow ‘curiouser and curiouser’ as Alice would say. I should have been back before but some unaccountable inclination made me break my journey at Rouen. I was there this afternoon, and who should I see but the heroine of all this mystery.”
“What!” shouted Westerham, utterly shaken out of himself, “not Lady Kathleen?”
“Lady Kathleen herself,” answered Dunton.
“Good God!” cried Westerham. “The crisis must be at hand indeed. She has been lured over there to her death.”
Dunton dropped his eyeglass and stared at his friend in amazement. Westerham was almost beside himself with anxiety and rage.
“Don't sit staring there like a gibbering idiot,” he almost yelled, “but give me some money. Quick! They have taken my notes, and I have practically spent all my loose cash on the things I need here.”
Dunton began to fumble in his pockets. “You cannot expect a fellow to have much about him when he has just come back from Paris,” he grumbled. “Still, I think I can dig up twenty pounds or so.”
Westerham stood over him. “Come along! Come along!” he urged. “Every penny you have got.”
With a queer smile Dunton emptied his pockets and poured the contents into Westerham's palms.