arm.

"Aye! most unfortunate. Blakeney, not content with being the richest
among my father's subjects, has also the most outrageous luck. By the
way, where is that inimitable wit? I vow, Madam, that this life would be
but a dreary desert without your smiles and his sallies."

CHAPTER XIV ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY!

Supper had been extremely gay. All those present declared that never had
Lady Blakeney been more adorable, nor that "demmed idiot" Sir Percy more
amusing.

His Royal Highness had laughed until the tears streamed down his cheeks
at Blakeney's foolish yet funny repartees. His doggerel verse, "We seek
him here, we seek him there," etc., was sung to the tune of "Ho! Merry
Britons!" and to the accompaniment of glasses knocked loudly against
the table. Lord Grenville, moreover, had a most perfect cook--some wags
asserted that he was a scion of the old French NOBLESSE, who having lost
his fortune, had come to seek it in the CUISINE of the Foreign Office.

Marguerite Blakeney was in her most brilliant mood, and surely not a
soul in that crowded supper-room had even an inkling of the terrible
struggle which was raging within her heart.

The clock was ticking so mercilessly on. It was long past midnight,
and even the Prince of Wales was thinking of leaving the supper-table.
Within the next half-hour the destinies of two brave men would be pitted
against one another--the dearly-beloved brother and he, the unknown
hero.

Marguerite had not tried to see Chauvelin during this last hour; she
knew that his keen, fox-like eyes would terrify her at once, and incline
the balance of her decision towards Armand. Whilst she did not see him,
there still lingered in her heart of hearts a vague, undefined hope that
"something" would occur, something big, enormous, epoch-making, which
would shift from her young, weak shoulders this terrible burden of
responsibility, of having to choose between two such cruel alternatives.

But the minutes ticked on with that dull monotony which they invariably
seem to assume when our very nerves ache with their incessant ticking.

After supper, dancing was resumed. His Royal Highness had left, and
there was general talk of departing among the older guests; the young
were indefatigable and had started on a new gavotte, which would fill
the next quarter of an hour.

Marguerite did not feel equal to another dance; there is a limit to the
most enduring of self-control. Escorted by a Cabin