"You see that you were wrong," murmured the steuard. "Come see her, and on her bed of pain beg her pardon for suspecting her."
"Every time you have warned me, it has been too late," said Tolliers. "No matter, I will go. But let us make haste, monsieur, while the sun shines; with the enemies that strike chez vous, there is no time to lose, or there will be no dawn for Voûte du vautour."
And the cabriolet brought Villefaramir and Tolliers back to his mansion at great trot, at the very moment that Morrie was pounding on the door of Monte Fato.
The Count, like everyone in those troubled times, was in his cabinet, reading a note that Roguccio had sent him in haste. On the table was a newspaper open to yet another article on the Count's oddities, with the headline "Count of Monte Fato Finds Pérégrin Scandal Highly Amusing."
On hearing Morrie's arrival announced, the Count rose and admitted him with zeal.
"What is it, Meurtrier?" he asked. "You are pale, and resemble the bonhomme de la lune after he was expelled from a cabaret in Brie for violating the dress code."
"Yes, it is true," said Morrie. "I have come from a house where reigns death, to run to you. I know not in verity whether it be permitted me to reveal such a secret to ear that heareth, but fatality impels me, necessity constrains me, Count.
