the quay below turned to
hideous jeers hurled at her by tormenting fiends.

She closed the window quickly, for she feared that she would go mad.
For an hour after that she walked up and down the room making violent
efforts to control her nerves, to find a glimmer of that courage which
she promised Percy that she would have.

CHAPTER XXXII. SISTERS

The morning found her fagged out, but more calm. Later on she managed
to drink some coffee, and having washed and dressed, she prepared to go
out.

Sir Andrew appeared in time to ascertain her wishes.

"I promised Percy to go to the Rue de Charonne in the late afternoon,"
she said. "I have some hours to spare, and mean to employ them in trying
to find speech with Mademoiselle Lange."

"Blakeney has told you where she lives?"

"Yes. In the Square du Roule. I know it well. I can be there in half an
hour."

He, of course, begged to be allowed to accompany her, and anon they were
walking together quickly up toward the Faubourg St. Honore. The snow had
ceased falling, but it was still very cold, but neither Marguerite nor
Sir Andrew were conscious of the temperature or of any outward signs
around them. They walked on silently until they reached the torn-down
gates of the Square du Roule; there Sir Andrew parted from Marguerite
after having appointed to meet her an hour later at a small eating-house
he knew of where they could have some food together, before starting on
their long expedition to the Rue de Charonne.

Five minutes later Marguerite Blakeney was shown in by worthy Madame
Belhomme, into the quaint and pretty drawing-room with its soft-toned
hangings and old-world air of faded grace. Mademoiselle Lange was
sitting there, in a capacious armchair, which encircled her delicate
figure with its frame-work of dull old gold.

She was ostensibly reading when Marguerite was announced, for an open
book lay on a table beside her; but it seemed to the visitor that mayhap
the young girl's thoughts had played truant from her work, for her pose
was listless and apathetic, and there was a look of grave trouble upon
the childlike face.

She rose when Marguerite entered, obviously puzzled at the unexpected
visit, and somewhat awed at the appearance of this beautiful woman with
the sad look in her eyes.

"I must crave your pardon, mademoiselle," said Lady Blakeney as soon as
the door had once more closed on Madame Belhomme, and she found herself
alone with the young gi