taking a pinch of
snuff. He had received a rebuke and a snub, but his shrewd, fox-like
face looked neither abashed nor disappointed; on the contrary, a curious
smile, half sarcastic and wholly satisfied, played around the corners of
his thin lips.

CHAPTER IX THE OUTRAGE

A beautiful starlit night had followed on the day of incessant rain: a
cool, balmy, late summer's night, essentially English in its suggestion
of moisture and scent of wet earth and dripping leaves.

The magnificent coach, drawn by four of the finest thoroughbreds in
England, had driven off along the London road, with Sir Percy Blakeney
on the box, holding the reins in his slender feminine hands, and beside
him Lady Blakeney wrapped in costly furs. A fifty-mile drive on a
starlit summer's night! Marguerite had hailed the notion of it
with delight. . . . Sir Percy was an enthusiastic whip; his four
thoroughbreds, which had been sent down to Dover a couple of days
before, were just sufficiently fresh and restive to add zest to the
expedition and Marguerite revelled in anticipation of the few hours of
solitude, with the soft night breeze fanning her cheeks, her thoughts
wandering, whither away? She knew from old experience that Sir Percy
would speak little, if at all: he had often driven her on his beautiful
coach for hours at night, from point to point, without making more than
one or two casual remarks upon the weather or the state of the roads. He
was very fond of driving by night, and she had very quickly adopted his
fancy: as she sat next to him hour after hour, admiring the dexterous,
certain way in which he handled the reins, she often wondered what went
on in that slow-going head of his. He never told her, and she had never
cared to ask.

At "The Fisherman's Rest" Mr. Jellyband was going the round, putting
out the lights. His bar customers had all gone, but upstairs in the snug
little bedrooms, Mr. Jellyband had quite a few important guests: the
Comtesse de Tournay, with Suzannne, and the Vicomte, and there were two
more bedrooms ready for Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, if
the two young men should elect to honour the ancient hostelry and stay
the night.

For the moment these two young gallants were comfortably installed
in the coffee-room, before the huge log-fire, which, in spite of the
mildness of the evening, had been allowed to burn merrily.

"I say, Jelly, has everyone gone?" asked Lord Tony, as the worthy
lan