eprived her of the full measure of her senses. She could move
and speak and see, she could hear and in a measure understand what was
said, but she was really an automaton or a sleep-walker, moving and
speaking mechanically and without due comprehension.

Possibly, if she had then and there fully realized all that the future
meant, she would have gone mad with the horror of it all.

"Lady Blakeney," began Chauvelin after he had quickly dismissed the
soldiers from the room, "when you and I parted from one another just
now, I had no idea that I should so soon have the pleasure of a personal
conversation with Sir Percy.... There is no occasion yet, believe me,
for sorrow or fear.... Another twenty-four hours at most, and you will
be on board the 'Day-Dream' outward bound for England. Sir Percy himself
might perhaps accompany you; he does not desire that you should journey
to Paris, and I may safely say, that in his mind, he has already
accepted certain little conditions which I have been forced to impose
upon him ere I sign the order for your absolute release."

"Conditions?" she repeated vaguely and stupidly, looking in bewilderment
from one to the other.

"You are tired, m'dear," said Sir Percy quietly, "will you not sit
down?"

He held the chair gallantly for her. She tried to read his face,
but could not catch even a flash from beneath the heavy lids which
obstinately veiled his eyes.

"Oh! it is a mere matter of exchanging signatures," continued Chauvelin
in response to her inquiring glance and toying with the papers which
were scattered on the table. "Here you see is the order to allow Sir
Percy Blakeney and his wife, nee Marguerite St. Just, to quit the town
of Boulogne unmolested."

He held a paper out towards Marguerite, inviting her to look at it. She
caught sight of an official-looking document, bearing the motto and
seal of the Republic of France, and of her own name and Percy's written
thereon in full.

"It is perfectly en regle, I assure you," continued Chauvelin, "and only
awaits my signature."

He now took up another paper which looked like a long closely-written
letter. Marguerite watched his every movement, for instinct told her
that the supreme moment had come. There was a look of almost superhuman
cruelty and malice in the little Frenchman's eyes as he fixed them on
the impassive figure of Sir Percy, the while with slightly trembling
hands he fingered that piece of paper and smoothed out its c