"Telborn has gone for the doctors," she went on. "Sir Guy was burned, too, you know, most fearfully. It was he who saved Mrs. Darling."

"If I'd only known where her room was," Carleigh reproached himself, forgetting that it had been all he could do to save himself.

"Sir Guy seems to have known."

Oh, how he resented that! Still it was best to be silent. If there was the double meaning he suspected he would be the last one to point it out.

"She was already safe, it seems. Had got downstairs without a mark, better dressed than any of us. But she went back."

"Went back?"

"Yes. It was suicidal. Every one said so. Every one begged her. But she wouldn't listen. She had forgotten something. Fancy that!"

Carleigh ground his teeth. The face of Rosamond Veynol was forgotten again. Anxiety for Nina tore at his heart and rent his soul in pieces.

Now she was doubly precious.

And that Waldron fellow! He hoped he would die. Otherwise grat.i.tude might play a part. It probably would--and that would mean for himself her utter loss.

"We waited five minutes," his informant continued. "It seemed ages. She didn't return. And just then Sir Guy appeared. We were all women there, you know. We told him, and he dashed off at once. It seems she reached her room quite safely. But before she could turn round she was penned in. Sir Guy went to her through a curtain of flame."

"Was she unconscious?" asked Carleigh anxiously.

"Unfortunately--no. Her screams were pitiful!"

"Don't!" he begged. "It's horrible!"

"I heard some one say it was her just recompense. You've heard she shot her husband, haven't you?"

"I've heard it, of course. But it isn't true. I know it isn't. She has the kindest heart in the world," he defended.

"Where there's smoke there's always some fire," quoted the marchioness.

"We've just had proof of that. Possibly she didn't fire the shot, but I'll wager she had a hand in it."

"I'll never believe that. Never!"

"And you'll never find a cigarette for me unless you try, you know," she suggested.

"I beg your pardon," he said in a lifeless voice. "I'll go at once."

He went at once, but he forgot again almost directly. He was bent on learning more about Nina. What were her chances of life? That was what he asked every one.

"Oh, she may pull through," said Archdeacon, who was helping in the distribution of sandwiches and coffee. "I hope to Heaven she will! But I'm afraid she'll be terribly disfigured. It was her face that got the worst of it. Have a sandwich, old chap? Gad, what a narrow shave you had!"

Hugh Blissmore, the novelist, burly and long-haired, was drinking black coffee. He was likewise smoking a cigarette, but Carleigh, in spite of his quest, never noticed it.

"Awful about Mrs. Darling, isn't it?" was the way he broached the topic.

"Awful!" exclaimed the writer--and was rather interrogative as well as exclamatory. "Oh, yes, I dare say! I've been thinking of the heroic side. Devilish fine of Sir Guy, don't you know! Sorry she's got to die, too! Heroism so bootless--and all that. But situation out of the ordinary. Oh, quite out of the ordinary."

"But it isn't certain that--" objected Carleigh.

"Certain?" the other interrupted, drawing his lungs full of smoke. "Of course it's certain. Hasn't a chance, poor lady. Not the smallest chance."

Sir Caryll's chin dropped and a grim, inarticulate sound came up from his throat.

"Heard anything of the cars from Cross Saddle?" the novelist inquired in turn. "Rotting uncomfortable messing about here, I say."

"Is that what's proposed?" asked the saddened one indifferently.

"Yes. Didn't you know? They took Mrs. Darling and Waldron over to the hall in one from here, and some fellows went off to Carlisle for the doctor-chaps in the other. They were to bring back some of Lord Dalgries's cars with them. They've been gone over an hour now--and no signs."

Carleigh was about to seek something more consoling in another quarter when one of the giggling girls of the previous afternoon asked him the time.

"Haven't the faintest idea," he said. "Left my watch behind."

At which she giggled in such an irritating way that he turned sharply upon her.

"That's so funny," she managed to enunciate. "There isn't a single watch among us. They were all forgotten--and we can't find out the exact time."

"And--and _you_ were saved," said Carleigh boorishly. But she didn't in the least understand.

Just then the horn of a motor echoed from the park's main drive and a minute later its lamps flared as it rolled over the sward toward the wood.

Sir Caryll ran forward, but the novelist was before him, desirous of being first to secure a place. The young baronet's object, however, was different.

"What do they say of Mrs. Darling?" he called as the car slowed down.

"Who, sir?" asked the chauffeur.

"The lady who was so severely burned. Have the doctors seen her, do you know?"

"Oh, her, sir!" The man was in ill-humor at having been called from his bed at such an hour. "I believe they have, sir. I 'eard some one say as it was all up with some one. I suppose it was 'er they meant, sir. Now don't crowd, please, there's more cars be'ind this one!"

Carleigh stood as one stunned.

It was the voice of the marchioness that recalled him.

"Did you find me a smoke?" she was asking.

"Cigarettes," said Carleigh, "are as scarce as--as watches, unfortunately." And his tone was more lifeless than ever.

CHAPTER XVIII

At Cross Saddle