“I can’t—­I’m in haste,” I blundered.  “Good morning!”

“But wait!  What’s wrong?  A moment, I entreat!  Nay, you shall—!” And at that she came tripping swiftly down the stairs.  The maid, embarrassed, handed her the letter.  Without opening it, she advanced to me, while I was wildly considering the propriety of taking to my heels; and demanded: 

“What is it you had to write?  Sure ’tis your own hand.  Why can’t you tell me?”

“Not so loud,” I begged.  “My mother and Fanny mustn’t know till I am gone.”

“Gone!” With this she tore open the letter, and seemed to grasp its general sense in a glance.  “A duel!  I suspected—­from what Philip said.  Oh, my God, was he—?” She scanned the writing wildly, but in her excitement it conveyed nothing to her mind.

“Captain Falconer will not annoy you again,” I said, “and Philip and I must go to France for awhile.  Good-bye!  Let mother and Fanny see the letter in half an hour.”

“But wait—­thank God, he’s not hurt!—­France, you say?  How?  Which road?”

She was holding my coat lapel, to make me stay and tell her.  So I answered: 

“By post to Hastings; there we shall get the Doughty boys to—­”

At this, there broke in another voice from above stairs—­that of Fanny: 

“Is that Bert, Madge dear?”

“Tell her ‘no,’” I whispered, appalled at thought of a leave-taking, explanations, weeping, and delay.  “And for God’s sake, let me—­ah, thank you!  Read the letter—­you shall hear from us—­God bless you all!”

The next moment I was speeding from the house, leaving Madge in a tumult of thoughts at the door.  I turned into Gerrard Street without looking back; and brisk walking soon brought me to the Strand, where Philip himself was just ready to take the post-chaise.

“A strange thing delayed me,” said he, as we forthwith took our seats in the vehicle; which we had no sooner done than the postilions set the four horses going and our journey was begun.

“What was it?” I asked, willing to reserve the account of my interview with Madge till later.

“The most remarkable thing, for me to witness on this particular morning,” he replied; and told me the story as we rattled through Temple Bar and Fleet Street, on our way to the bridge and the Surrey side.  “After I left you, I don’t know what it was that kept me from coming through St. Martin’s Lane to the Strand, and made me continue East instead.  But something did; and finally I turned to come through Bow Street.  When I was nearly in front of the magistrate’s house, a post-chaise stopped before it, and a fellow got out whom I took to be a Bow Street runner.  Several people ran up to see if he had a prisoner in the chaise, and so the footway was blocked; and I stopped to look on for a moment with the rest.  A man called out to the constable, ‘What you got, Bill?’ The constable, who had turned around and reached into the chaise, stopped to look at the speaker, and said, ’Nobody much—­only the Soho Square assault and robbery—­I ran him down at Plymouth, waiting for a vessel—­he had a mind to travel for his health.’  The constable grinned, and the other man said, ’Sure that’s a hanging business, and no mistake!’”