exquisitely embroidered
waistcoat beneath.

He was the perfect presentation of a London dandy, and might have
been entering a royal drawing-room in company with an honoured guest.
Marguerite's eyes were riveted on him as he came well within the circle
of light projected by the candles, but not even with that acute sixth
sense of a passionate and loving woman could she detect the slightest
tremor in the aristocratic hands which held the gold-rimmed eyeglass,
nor the faintest quiver of the firmly moulded lips.

This had occurred just as the bell of the old Beffroi chimed
three-quarters after six. Now it was close on seven, and in the centre
of the room and with his face and figure well lighted up by the candles,
at the table pen in hand sat Sir Percy writing.

At his elbow just behind him stood Chauvelin on the one side and Collot
d'Herbois on the other, both watching with fixed and burning eyes the
writing of that letter.

Sir Percy seemed in no hurry. He wrote slowly and deliberately,
carefully copying the draft of the letter which was propped up in front
of him. The spelling of some of the French words seemed to have
troubled him at first, for when he began he made many facetious
and self-deprecatory remarks anent his own want of education, and
carelessness in youth in acquiring the gentle art of speaking so elegant
a language.

Presently, however, he appeared more at his ease, or perhaps less
inclined to talk, since he only received curt monosyllabic answers to
his pleasant sallies. Five minutes had gone by without any other sound,
save the spasmodic creak of Sir Percy's pen upon the paper, the while
Chauvelin and Collot watched every word he wrote.

But gradually from afar there had arisen in the stillness of evening a
distant, rolling noise like that of surf breaking against the cliffs.
Nearer and louder it grew, and as it increased in volume, so it gained
now in diversity. The monotonous, roll-like, far-off thunder was just as
continuous as before, but now shriller notes broke out from amongst
the more remote sounds, a loud laugh seemed ever and anon to pierce the
distance and to rise above the persistent hubbub, which became the mere
accompaniment to these isolated tones.

The merrymakers of Boulogne, having started from the Place de la
Senechaussee, were making the round of the town by the wide avenue which
tops the ramparts. They were coming past the Fort Gayole, shouting,
singing, brass trumpets in fr