Lottie turned pale again under her paint, and moved toward the door. There she paused, and a strange look came into her face. It was the shadow of coming remorse casting itself before its steps. Even then there was a chance for Margaret, for at that moment Lottie's womanly heart was beginning to assert itself, and the impulse to fling herself at Margaret's feet and tell her the truth—the real truth—was making itself felt; but at that instant she caught sight of a man's figure coming up the winding path, and with a quick step she came toward Margaret.
"I am going," she said, in her ear; "you will not see me again. Go to London—abroad—somewhere away from Blair, and—from Mr. Austin Ambrose!"
These last words were not in her part, but for the life of her, though she lost all, Lottie could not have helped whispering them. Then, without waiting for any response, she went out and turned down the path. A hundred yards from the gate, on the narrow path, she met Austin Ambrose.
"Well," he said, quickly, "is it over?"
"Yes, it's done," she said, looking at him with anything but a pleasant countenance; "and a nice job it has been! Why didn't you tell me she was a lady?"
He made an impatient gesture.
"What does it matter? Where is she?—how did she take it?"
"She is in there," said Lottie shortly; "and she took it—well, it would have been almost as easy to have murdered her! Indeed, I shouldn't be surprised if it did kill her. She fell at my feet as if she were dead."
"Tut!" he said, with a cold smile; "she is not of the sort that die easily. She will get over it. But there is no time to lose. You get over to Paris; catch the down-train to the junction, and travel by the night mail."
"And you—what are you going to do now?" she asked.