back she would hate him for the rest of his life.

What had happened to make her rush off like this? He could not
imagine. She had seemed so happy only that morning. What could account
for the tragedy that seemed to breathe in every word of that little
note she had left for June?

He took it from his pocket and read it again. It gave no hint of what
had prompted this sudden flight. He wrote out a couple of telegrams to
dispatch from Dover--one for June, and another for Driver.

He wished he had got Driver with him. There was a sort of security in
the man's stolidness.

He realised that he was without luggage, and that he had not much
money. Supposing he had to go on to Paris, what the dickens was he
going to do?

When the train ran into Dover he got to his feet with a sigh of
relief. Quickly as he was out of the train a great many passengers had
left it before him. He started at a run down the platform. He stared
at every woman he met, hoping it would be Esther. The crowd was
getting thick; he had to push his way unceremoniously past people;
porters with luggage trucks jostled him; he began to lose his
temper--he was just answering with great heat a man who had cynically
asked "who he was shoving," when some one touched his arm.

"Micky...."

For a moment Micky's heart beat up in his throat; he turned quickly
and found himself looking down into the brown eyes of Marie Deland.

If she had hoped for anything better, it must have been a shock to her
to see the bitter disappointment in Micky's face. He stammered out
that he had not expected to see her, that he was in a deuce of a
hurry; he hoped she would forgive him, but--

"Micky, by all that's wonderful!" said another voice, and there was
Marie's father, the good-natured old man who had pretended to agree
with his wife when she raved against Micky for the cavalier way in
which he had treated his daughter, but who in his heart had indulged
in a quiet chuckle, thinking that Micky had been rather clever to
escape from the toils at the eleventh hour.

He shook hands with Micky heartily enough; he, at any rate, had no
grudge against him. He asked Micky a hundred questions.

"Are you going over, my boy? Come with us. I've got a reserved
carriage on the Paris express. Delighted to see you. Marie and I are
just off for a little holiday by ourselves."

He touched his daughter's arm. "Ask him to join us, my dear."

Micky did his best to answer civilly; he was in th