He never returned; he never even replied.

She ran to the window, and threw it up--and was just in time to see him signal to the carriage and leap into it.

Her horror of the fatal purpose that was but too plainly rooted in him--her conviction that he was on the track of the assassin, self devoted to exact the terrible penalty of blood for blood--emboldened her to insist on being heard.

"Come back," she cried.

"I must, I will, speak with you." He waved his hand to her with a gesture of despair.