"A gentleman, my lady," replied the man, "at `The Rose and Thistle' inn opposite Charing Cross. He said you would understand.""At `The Rose and Thistle'? What was he doing?""He was waiting for the coach, you ladyship, which he had ordered.""The coach?"
"Yes, my lady. A special coach he had ordered. I understood from his man that he was posting straight to Dover.""That's enough. You may go." Then she turned to the groom:
"My coach and the four swiftest horses in the stables, to be ready at once."The groom and runner both went quickly off to obey.
Marguerite remained standing for a moment on the lawn quite alone.
Her graceful figure was as rigid as a statue, her eyes were fixed, her hands were tightly clasped across her breast; her lips moved as they murmured with pathetic heart-breaking persistence,--"What's to be done? What's to be done? Where to find him?--Oh, God! grant me light."But this was not the moment for remorse and despair. She had done--unwittingly--an awful and terrible thing--the very worst crime, in her eyes, that woman ever committed--she saw it in all its horror.
