"I want a word of comfort, captain. Oh, do
tell me, when shall I see her again?"
The captain closed the book, and answered in one inexorable word:
"Never!"
Between eleven and twelve o'clock that night Mrs. Lecount drove into
Zurich.
Her brother's house, when she stopped before it, was shut up. With some
difficulty and delay the servant was aroused. She held up her hands in
speechless amazement when she opened the door and saw who the visitor
was.
"Is my brother alive?" asked Mrs. Lecount, entering the house.
"Alive!" echoed the servant. "He has gone holiday-making into the
country, to finish his recovery in the fine fresh air."
The housekeeper staggered back against the wall of the passage. The
coachman and the servant put her into a chair. Her face was livid, and
her teeth chattered in her head.
"Send for my brother's doctor," she said, as soon as she could speak.
The doctor came. She handed him a letter before he could say a word.
"Did you write that letter?"
He looked it over rapidly, and answered her without hesitation,
"Certainly not!"
"It is your handwriting."
"It is a forgery of my handwriting."
She rose from the chair with a new strength in her.
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