that sounded like a sob.

Then all was still again. The gentle midnight breeze caressed the tops
of the ancient oaks and elms behind her, drawing murmurs from their
dying leaves like unto the whisperings of ghosts.

Marguerite shuddered with a slight sense of cold. Before her, amongst
the dark clump of leaves and the roses, invisible in the gloom, there
fluttered with a curious, melancholy flapping, the folded paper placed
there by Candeille. She watched it for awhile, as, disturbed by the
wind, it seemed ready to take its flight towards the river. Anon it fell
to the ground, and Marguerite with sudden overpowering impulse, stooped
and picked it up. Then clutching it nervously in her hand, she walked
rapidly back towards the house.

Chapter XV: Farewell

As she neared the terrace, she became conscious of several forms moving
about at the foot of the steps, some few feet below where she was
standing. Soon she saw the glimmer of lanthorns, heard whispering
voices, and the lapping of the water against the side of a boat.

Anon a figure, laden with cloaks and sundry packages, passed down the
steps close beside her. Even in the darkness Marguerite recognized
Benyon, her husband's confidential valet. Without a moment's hesitation,
she flew among the terrace towards the wing of the house occupied by Sir
Percy. She had not gone far before she discerned his tall figure walking
leisurely along the path which here skirted part of the house.

He had on his large caped coat, which was thrown open in front,
displaying a grey travelling suit of fine cloth; his hands were as
usual buried in the pockets of his breeches, and on his head he wore the
folding chapeau-bras which he habitually affected.

Before she had time to think, or to realize that he was going, before
she could utter one single word, she was in his arms, clinging to him
with passionate intensity, trying in the gloom to catch every expression
of his eyes, every quiver of the face now bent down so close to her.

"Percy, you cannot go... you cannot go!..." she pleaded.

She had felt his strong arms closing round her, his lips seeking hers,
her eyes, her hair, her clinging hands, which dragged at his shoulders
in a wild agony of despair.

"If you really loved me, Percy," she murmured, "you would not go, you
would not go..."

He would not trust himself to speak; it well-nigh seemed as if his
sinews cracked with the violent effort at self-control. Oh! h