The Postmaster of Market Deignton by E. Phillips Oppenheim

In half a dozen seconds I am out in the street, staring blankly up and down. I have some vague expectation of seeing a crowd gathered around a fainting or a dying woman. There is nothing of the sort. The only object in sight is Lady Deignton's brougham disappearing in the distance. I gaze after it searchingly. The horses are going at their usual pace, and the coachman and footman are sitting unmoved upon the box. I abandon the idea of connecting in any way that awful shriek of agony with Lady Deignton. I remember her composure only a moment before, and I withdraw my eyes from her carriage. Suddenly I remember the little black figure whom not a minute ago I had seen crossing the market-place.

She is nowhere in sight. I look around very carefully; she had completely disappeared. Bareheaded, I walk along the pavement and look into Mr. Mann's shop. She is not there. I cross the road, and look into Mr. Holmes's. It is empty. No one else seems to have heard the cry, for, save myself, there is no one in sight, and as for Olive, it seems as though the earth had opened and swallowed her up.