with a view to posting to Dover, but to Tilbury Fort, where the "Day
Dream" would be in readiness to start with a favourable tide.

Thought was returning to her, slowly and coherently: the pain of the
last farewell was still there, bruising her very senses with its dull
and heavy weight, but it had become numb and dead, leaving her,
herself, her heart and soul, stunned and apathetic, whilst her brain was
gradually resuming its activity.

And the more she thought it over, the more certain she grew that her
husband was going as far as Tilbury by river and would embark on the
"Day Dream" there. Of course he would go to Boulogne at once. The duel
was to take place there, Candeille had told her that... adding that she
thought she, Marguerite, would wish to go with him.

To go with him!

Heavens above! was not that the only real, tangible thought in that
whirling chaos which was raging in her mind?

To go with him! Surely there must be some means of reaching him yet!
Fate, Nature, God Himself would never permit so monstrous a thing as
this: that she should be parted from her husband, now when his life was
not only in danger, but forfeited already... lost... a precious thing
all but gone from this world.

Percy was going to Boulogne... she must go too. By posting at once to
Dover, she could get the tidal boat on the morrow and reach the French
coast quite as soon as the "Day Dream." Once at Boulogne, she would have
no difficulty in finding her husband, of that she felt sure. She would
have but to dog Chauvelin's footsteps, find out something of his plans,
of the orders he gave to troops or to spies,--oh! she would find him! of
that she was never for a moment in doubt!

How well she remembered her journey to Calais just a year ago, in
company with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes! Chance had favoured her then, had
enabled her to be of service to her husband if only by distracting
Chauvelin's attention for awhile to herself. Heaven knows! she had but
little hope of being of use to him now: an aching sense was in her that
fate had at last been too strong! that the daring adventurer had staked
once too often, had cast the die and had lost.

In the bosom of her dress she felt the sharp edge of the paper left for
her by Desiree Candeille among the roses in the park. She had picked it
up almost mechanically then, and tucked it away, hardly heeding what she
was doing. Whatever the motive of the French actress had been in placing
the passp