she drew near, the sound of revelry, of gay, jovial laughter, grew
louder and more distinct. She could distinguish Sir Andrew Ffoulkes'
pleasant voice, Lord Tony's boisterous guffaws, her husband's
occasional, drawly, sleepy comments; then realising the loneliness of
the road and the fast gathering gloom round her, she quickened her steps
. . . the next moment she perceived a stranger coming rapidly towards
her. Marguerite did not look up: she was not the least nervous, and "The
Fisherman's Rest" was now well within call.

The stranger paused when he saw Marguerite coming quickly towards him,
and just as she was about to slip past him, he said very quietly:

"Citoyenne St. Just."

Marguerite uttered a little cry of astonishment, at thus hearing her
own familiar maiden name uttered so close to her. She looked up at the
stranger, and this time, with a cry of unfeigned pleasure, she put out
both her hands effusively towards him.

"Chauvelin!" she exclaimed.

"Himself, citoyenne, at your service," said the stranger, gallantly
kissing the tips of her fingers.

Marguerite said nothing for a moment or two, as she surveyed with
obvious delight the not very prepossessing little figure before her.
Chauvelin was then nearer forty than thirty--a clever, shrewd-looking
personality, with a curious fox-like expression in the deep, sunken
eyes. He was the same stranger who an hour or two previously had joined
Mr. Jellyband in a friendly glass of wine.

"Chauvelin . . . my friend . . ." said Marguerite, with a pretty little
sigh of satisfaction. "I am mightily pleased to see you."

No doubt poor Marguerite St. Just, lonely in the midst of her grandeur,
and of her starchy friends, was happy to see a face that brought back
memories of that happy time in Paris, when she reigned--a queen--over
the intellectual coterie of the Rue de Richelieu. She did not notice
the sarcastic little smile, however, that hovered round the thin lips of
Chauvelin.

"But tell me," she added merrily, "what in the world, or whom in the
world, are you doing here in England?"

"I might return the subtle compliment, fair lady," he said. "What of
yourself?"

"Oh, I?" she said, with a shrug of the shoulders. "Je m'ennuie, mon ami,
that is all."

They had reached the porch of "The Fisherman's Rest," but Marguerite
seemed loth to go within. The evening air was lovely after the storm,
and she had found a friend who exhaled the breath of Paris, who knew
Ar