Though the street below was dim, she could see well enough that the carriage was no longer there.
It was the bitterest night of the year and the air cut her like a knife, but she would not draw back.

She strained her sight in both directions, searching in the gloom for the moving lights of a carriage, but she saw nothing.

At last she shut the window and went back to the door.

They must be on the stairs, or still below, perhaps, waiting for help to carry him up.

The cold might kill him in his present state, a cold that would kill most things exposed to it.