es under the
heavily moulded brows, and the mouth with its imperative, and yet
eager--or tremulous?--expression. She perceived that he hung upon
her answer.

She drew her hand piteously across her eyes as though to shut out the
crowds, the station, and the urgency of this personality beside her.
Despair was in her heart. How to consent? How to refuse?

"But my friends," she stammered--"the friends with whom I was going to
stay--they will be alarmed."

"Could you not telegraph to them? They would understand, surely. The
office is close by."

She let herself be hurried along, not knowing what to do. Delafield
walked beside her. If she had been able to observe him, she must have
been struck afresh by the pale intensity, the controlled agitation
of his face.

"Is it really so serious?" she asked, pausing a moment, as though in
resistance.

"It is the end. Of that there can be no question. You have touched his
heart very deeply. He longs to see her, Evelyn says. And his daughter
and granddaughter are still abroad--Miss Moffatt, indeed, is ill at
Florence with a touch of diphtheria. He is alone with his two sons.
You will go?"

Even in her confusion, the strangeness of it all was borne in upon
her--his insistence, the extraordinary chance of their meeting, his
grave, commanding manner.

"How could you know I was here?" she said, in bewilderment.

"I didn't know," he said, slowly. "But, thank God, I have met you. I
dread to think of your fatigue, but you will be glad just to see him
again--just to give him his last wish--won't you?" he said, pleadingly.
"Here is the telegraph-office. Shall I do it for you?"

"No, thank you. I--I must think how to word it. Please wait."

She went in alone. As she took the pencil into her hands a low groan
burst from her lips. The man writing in the next compartment turned
round in astonishment. She controlled herself and began to write. There
was no escape. She must submit; and all was over.

She telegraphed to Warkworth, care of the Chef de Gare, at the Sceaux
Station, and also to the country inn.

"Have met Mr. Delafield by chance at Nord Station. Lord Lackington
dying. Must return to-night. Where shall I write? Good-bye."

When it was done she could hardly totter out of the office. Delafield
made her take his arm.

"You must have some food. Then I will go and get a sleeping-car for you
to Calais. There will be no crowd to-night. At Calais I will look after
you if you wil