Suddenly Hanaud leaned out of the window.
"It comes! it comes!" he said in a quick, feverish whisper. "I can
see the cab between the shrubs of the drive."
"Let it come!" said Mr. Ricardo superbly.
Even as he sat he could hear the grating of wheels upon the drive.
He saw Hanaud lean farther from the window and stamp impatiently
upon the floor.
"There it is at the door," he said; and for a few seconds he spoke
no more. He stood looking downwards, craning his head, with his
back towards Ricardo.
Then, with a wild and startled cry, he staggered back into the
room. His face was white as wax, his eyes full of horror, his
mouth open.
"What is the matter?" exclaimed Ricardo, springing to his feet.
"They are lifting her out! She doesn't move! They are lifting her
out!"
For a moment he stared into Ricardo's face--paralysed by fear.
Then he sprang down the stairs. Ricardo followed him.
There was confusion in the corridor. Men were running, voices were
crying questions. As they passed the window they saw Wethermill
start up, aroused from his lethargy. They knew the truth before
they reached the entrance of the hotel. A cab had driven up to the
door from the station; in the cab was an unknown woman stabbed to
the heart.
"She should have come by the omnibus," Hanaud repeated and
repeated stupidly. For the moment he was off his balance.