There were two. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. But she made no answer. Melusine—the real Melusine—evidently did not see him immediately, for her attention was on her descent from the high vehicle. When he could find words, he tried by the most urgent solicitations to prevail upon the constable to let him out. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. And Rollo, who had been waiting for some encouraging sound, presented himself at the doorway. Nuns, I mean. The booming voice and the energetic movements spoke plainly of hurry.
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