in here."

"Yes, my lady."

Honest Jellyband's face now expressed distress in spite of himself. He
had great regard for Sir Percy Blakeney, and did not like to see his
lady running away with young Sir Andrew. Of course, it was no business
of his, and Mr. Jellyband was no gossip. Still, in his heart,
he recollected that her ladyship was after all only one of them
"furriners"; what wonder that she was immoral like the rest of them?

"Don't sit up, honest Jellyband," continued Marguerite kindly, "nor you
either, Mistress Sally. Sir Andrew may be late."

Jellyband was only too willing that Sally should go to bed. He was
beginning not to like these goings-on at all. Still, Lady Blakeney would
pay handsomely for the accommodation, and it certainly was no business
of his.

Sally arranged a simple supper of cold meat, wine, and fruit on the
table, then with a respectful curtsey, she retired, wondering in her
little mind why her ladyship looked so serious, when she was about to
elope with her gallant.

Then commenced a period of weary waiting for Marguerite. She knew that
Sir Andrew--who would have to provide himself with clothes befitting a
lacquey--could not possibly reach Dover for at least a couple of hours.
He was a splendid horseman of course, and would make light in such an
emergency of the seventy odd miles between London and Dover. He would,
too, literally burn the ground beneath his horse's hoofs, but he might
not always get very good remounts, and in any case, he could not have
started from London until at least an hour after she did.

She had seen nothing of Chauvelin on the road. Her coachman, whom she
questioned, had not seen anyone answering the description his mistress
gave him of the wizened figure of the little Frenchman.

Evidently, therefore, he had been ahead of her all the time. She had not
dared to question the people at the various inns, where they had stopped
to change horses. She feared that Chauvelin had spies all along the
route, who might overhear her questions, then outdistance her and warn
her enemy of her approach.

Now she wondered at what inn he might be stopping, or whether he had had
the good luck of chartering a vessel already, and was now himself on
the way to France. That thought gripped her at the heart as with an iron
vice. If indeed she should not be too late already!

The loneliness of the room overwhelmed her; everything within was so
horribly still; the ticking of the gran