f
Italy.

At the hotel whither Madame Ribot had directed them, fresh
disappointment awaited them. The manager--when he found that the
two dusty and somewhat dishevelled-looking travellers who presented
themselves at the inquiry bureau were actually friends of Signor
Quarrington, the famous English artist who had stayed at his hotel--was
desolated, but the signor had departed a month ago! Had he the address?
But assuredly. He would write it down for the signora.

"He's in Normandy!" exclaimed Gillian in tones of bitter disappointment.
"At--what's the name of the place?--Armanches. Oh, Dan! We've got to go
right back to Paris again and then on to the coast."

Her face was full of anxiety. This would mean at least a delay of
several days before they could possibly see Michael, and meanwhile it
was a moot question as to how much longer Lady Arabella could restrain
Magda from taking definite steps with regard to joining the sisterhood.

Storran nodded.

"Yes," he said quietly. "But all the same, you'll not start back till
to-morrow--"

"Oh, but I must!" interrupted Gillian. "We can't afford to waste a
moment."

He glanced down at her and shook his head. Her face was white and drawn,
and there were deep violet shadows underneath her eyes. Suspense and her
anxious impatience had told upon her, and she had slept but little on
the journey. And now, with the addition of this last, totally unexpected
disappointment, she looked as though she could not stand much more.

"We can afford to waste a single day better than we can afford the three
or four which it would cost us if you collapsed en route," said Storran.

"I shan't collapse," she protested with white lips.

"So much the better. But all the same, you'll stay here till to-morrow
and get a good night's rest."

"I shouldn't sleep," she urged. "Let's go right on, Dan. Let's go----"

But the sentence was never finished. Quite suddenly she swayed,
stretching out her hands with a blind, groping movement. Dan was just in
time to catch her in his arms as she toppled over in a dead faint.

It was a week later when, in the early morning, a rather wan and
white-faced Gillian sprang up from her seat as the train ran into
Bayeux.

"Thank goodness we're here at last!" she exclaimed.

Storran put out his hand to steady her as the train jolted to a
standstill.

"Yes, we're here at last," he said. "Now to find a vehicle of some
description to take us out to Armanches."