"Lady Blakeney! Thank God! Thank God!"
Then she recognised him. It was Bertrand Moncrif.
He fell on his knees and seized her gown. He appeared entirely overwrought, imbalanced, and Marguerite tried in vain at first to get a coherent word out of him. All that he kept on repeating was:
"Will you help me? Will you help us all?"
"Indeed I will, if I can, M. Moncrif," Marguerite said gently. "Do try and compose yourself and tell me what is amiss."
She persuaded him to rise, and presently to follow her to a garden seat, where she sat down. He remained standing in front of her. His eyes still looked wild and scared, and he passed a shaking hand once or twice through his unruly hair. But he was obviously making an effort to compose himself, and after a little while, during which Marguerite waited with utmost patience, he began more coherently:
"Your servants said, milady," he began more quietly, "that you were in the garden. I could not wait until they called you; so I ran to find you. Will you try and forgive me? I ought not to have intruded."
"Of course I will forgive you," Marguerite rejoined with a smile, "if you will only tell me what is amiss."
He paused a moment, then cried abruptly:
"Régine has gone!"