"Come," he said to the Earl, and, with a courteous bow to Hermione, he
literally pulled her father from the room.
Hermione did not weep. She was done with tears, sick with vain regret,
yet braced to unfaltering purpose. The instant the door was closed she
picked up the telephone, and the wretched Krantz was soon in evidence
to verify the lawyer's words.
Marcelle was crying as though she had lost a lover or some dear
relative; when Hermione bade her prepare for their departure, she gave
no heed, but wailed her sorrow aloud.
"I d-don't believe them, miladi," she sobbed. "Mr. Curtis--will wring
the lawyer-man's neck--to-morrow. . . . I know he will. . . . Did Mr.
Curtis kill poor Mr. Hunter? If not, why should he tie that
Frenchman? . . . And wouldn't he t-tie twenty Frenchmen if he w-wanted
to m-marry you!"
Hermione stooped and fondled the girl's shoulders, for Marcelle had
collapsed to her knees on the hearth-rug while her mistress was using
the telephone.
"You have been my very good friend, Marcelle," she said, and the misery
in her voice subjugated the maid's louder grief. "Don't fail me now,
there's a dear! I want to write a letter, and there can be no question
whatever that you and I must get away before Mr. Curtis returns. Don't
fret, or lose faith in Providence.
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