the
time, of the gorgeous reception given that autumn by Lady Blakeney in
her magnificent riverside home.

Never had the spacious apartments of Blakeney Manor looked more
resplendent than on this memorable occasion--memorable because of the
events which brought the brilliant evening to a close.

The Prince of Wales had come over by water from Carlton House; the Royal
Princesses came early, and all fashionable London was there, chattering
and laughing, displaying elaborate gowns and priceless jewels dancing,
flirting, listening to the strains of the string band, or strolling
listlessly in the gardens, where the late roses and clumps of heliotrope
threw soft fragrance on the balmy air.

But Marguerite was nervous and agitated. Strive how she might, she
could not throw off that foreboding of something evil to come, which had
assailed her from the first moment when she met Chauvelin face to face.

That unaccountable feeling of unreality was still upon her, that sense
that she, and the woman Candeille, Percy and even His Royal Highness
were, for the time being, the actors in a play written and stage-managed
by Chauvelin. The ex-ambassador's humility, his offers of friendship,
his quietude under Sir Percy's good-humoured banter, everything was a
sham. Marguerite knew it; her womanly instinct, her passionate love, all
cried out to her in warning: but there was that in her husband's nature
which rendered her powerless in the face of such dangers, as, she felt
sure, were now threatening him.

Just before her guests had begun to assemble, she had been alone with
him for a few minutes. She had entered the room in which he sat, looking
radiantly beautiful in a shimmering gown of white and silver, with
diamonds in her golden hair and round her exquisite neck.

Moments like this, when she was alone with him, were the joy of her
life. Then and then only did she see him as he really was, with that
wistful tenderness in his deep-set eyes, that occasional flash
of passion from beneath the lazily-drooping lids. For a few
minutes--seconds, mayhap--the spirit of the reckless adventurer was laid
to rest, relegated into the furthermost background of this senses by the
powerful emotions of the lover.

Then he would seize her in his arms, and hold her to him, with a strange
longing to tear from out his heart all other thoughts, feelings and
passions save those which made him a slave to her beauty and her smiles.

"Percy!" she whispere