THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN
had run the two miles from Buezval and had barely breath enough to reach the Inn. “I came for Monsieur Lemois! There isn’t a moment to lose—the sea is now up to the porch. She is lost if you wait!”
“Madame lost!” we cried in unison.
“No,” he panted, “the house. She is not there. Find Monsieur Lemois!—all of you must come!”
Le Blanc was out of his chair before Gaston had completed his sentence.
“Get your coats and meet me at the garage!” he shouted. “I’ll run the motor out; we’ll be there in ten minutes! My coat too, Leà!” and he slammed the door behind him.
The old woman clattered upstairs into the several rooms for our ulsters and water-proofs, but Mignon sat still, too overjoyed to move or speak. Gaston, she knew, was going out into the rain again, but he was safe on the land now and not on a fishing craft, fighting his way into the harbor, as she had feared all day. The young fellow looked at her from under the brim of his dripping south-wester, but there was no word of recognition, though he had come as much to tell her he was safe as to summon us to madame’s villa. I caught her
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