Part 23 (1/2)

However, I held up my hand in its torn, bloodstained glove, with two silver pieces displayed on the palm.

”A child's hidey-hole, I suppose,” he said without showing as much interest as the occasion warranted. ”Otherwise there would be something more valuable. A young servant of the Grimaldis, perhaps; these coins are all of the same period--of no great value as antiques, I'm afraid.”

”They're of value to me,” I retorted. ”They'll bring me luck.” I would of course have given him one, if he hadn't been so disagreeable; but now I felt that he shouldn't have anything of mine if he were starving.

”You are very superst.i.tious, among other childlike qualities,” he replied, laughing. So _that_ was what he thought of me, and _that_ was why he had called me ”child”! It was all spoiled now, from the beginning; and the guide might as well have found me, as I had said, without _quite_ meaning it at the time.

”If you don't like lucky things, you can throw away my St. Christopher,”

I said, coldly. ”You must have thought it very silly.”

”I thought it extremely kind of you to give it, and I've no intention of throwing it away, or parting with it,” said he. ”Now, are you ready?”

”Yes,” I snapped.

In an instant he had me by the waist between two hands which felt strong as steel buckles, and swung me up like a feather on to the first step of the broken stairs. Then, in another second, he was at my side, supporting me to the top without a word, except a muttered ”Don't be childis.h.!.+” when I would have pushed away his arm.

Strange to say, I forgot Lady Turnour and Sir Samuel until we saw the guide, to whom long ago Mr. Dane had called up a rea.s.suring _”Tout va bien!_” Then, suddenly, the awful truth sprang into my mind. All this time they had been waiting for me! What would they say? What would they do?

In my horror, I even forgot my righteous anger with the chauffeur. ”Oh!”

I gasped. ”_The Turnours!_”

Then Mr. Dane spoke kindly again. ”Don't worry,” he said. ”It's all right. They've gone on.”

”In the car?” I cried.

”No. Sir Samuel can't drive the car. And as Lady Turnour thought she had a chill, rather than wait for me to find you they took a carriage which was here, and drove down to St. Remy. They'll go on by rail to Avignon, and--”

”There must have been a dreadful row!” I groaned.

”Not at all. You're not to worry. Lady Turnour behaved like a cad, as usual, but what can you expect? Sir Samuel did the best he could. He would have liked to wait, but if he'd insisted she would have had hysterics.”

”How came there to be a carriage here?” I asked the guide.

”The gentleman paid three young men who had driven up in it a good sum to get it for himself,” he explained, ”and they are walking down. They are of Germany.”

”Was it a long time?” I went on. ”Oh, it _must_ have been. It's nearly dark now, except for the moonlight.”

”It is perhaps an hour altogether since mademoiselle separated herself from the others,” the guide admitted. ”But they have been gone for more than half that time. They did not delay long, after the little dispute with monsieur about the car.”

”Oh, there was a dispute!” I caught him up, wheeling upon the chauffeur.

”You _must_ tell me.”

”It was nothing much,” he said, still very kindly, ”and it was her ladys.h.i.+p's fault, of course. If you were plain and elderly she'd have more patience; but as it is, you've seen how quick she is to scold; so, of course, she was angry when she'd finished her grog and you didn't turn up.”

”What did she say,” I asked.

He laughed. ”She was quite irrelevant.”

”I must know!”