elf that it is safe even to speak of
these things--here in England!" She clung to him suddenly with strong,
almost motherly, passion: "Don't go, Armand!" she begged; "don't go
back! What should I do if . . . if . . . if . . ."

Her voice was choked in sobs, her eyes, tender, blue and loving, gazed
appealingly at the young man, who in his turn looked steadfastly into
hers.

"You would in any case be my own brave sister," he said gently, "who
would remember that, when France is in peril, it is not for her sons to
turn their backs on her."

Even as he spoke, that sweet childlike smile crept back into her face,
pathetic in the extreme, for it seemed drowned in tears.

"Oh! Armand!" she said quaintly, "I sometimes wish you had not so many
lofty virtues. . . . I assure you little sins are far less dangerous
and uncomfortable. But you WILL be prudent?" she added earnestly.

"As far as possible . . . I promise you."

"Remember, dear, I have only you . . . to . . . to care for me. . . ."

"Nay, sweet one, you have other interests now. Percy cares for
you . . ."

A look of strange wistfulness crept into her eyes as she murmured,--

"He did . . . once . . ."

"But surely . . ."

"There, there, dear, don't distress yourself on my account. Percy is
very good . . ."

"Nay!" he interrupted energetically, "I will distress myself on your
account, my Margot. Listen, dear, I have not spoken of these things to
you before; something always seemed to stop me when I wished to question
you. But, somehow, I feel as if I could not go away and leave you now
without asking you one question. . . . You need not answer it if you
do not wish," he added, as he noted a sudden hard look, almost of
apprehension, darting through her eyes.

"What is it?" she asked simply.

"Does Sir Percy Blakeney know that . . . I mean, does he know the part
you played in the arrest of the Marquis de St. Cyr?"

She laughed--a mirthless, bitter, contemptuous laugh, which was like a
jarring chord in the music of her voice.

"That I denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr, you mean, to the tribunal that
ultimately sent him and all his family to the guillotine? Yes, he does
know. . . . . I told him after I married him. . . ."

"You told him all the circumstances--which so completely exonerated you
from any blame?"

"It was too late to talk of 'circumstances'; he heard the story from
other sources; my confession came too tardily, it seems. I could no
longer ple