Suzanne made no reply. She kissed Marguerite tenderly, and obeyed without a word; the child was overawed by the terrible, nameless misery in her friend’s face.
A minute later the groom returned, followed by the runner who had brought the letter.
“Who gave you this packet?” asked Marguerite.
“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, your 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,—