It bears the address “Rev. Gregoire Rogier, Rugg’s Ferry, Herefordshire,” and when opened the telegram is seen to have been sent from Folkestone. Its wording is:—
“The bird has escaped from its cage. Prenez garde!”
Well for the pseudo-priest, and his chère amie, that before they read it, the butler had left the room. For though figurative the form of expression, and cabalistic the words, both man and woman seem instantly to comprehend them. And with such comprehension, as almost to drive them distracted! He is silent, as if struck dumb, his face showing blanched and bloodless; while she utters a shriek, half terrified, half in frenzied anger!
It is the last loud cry, or word, to which she gives utterance at Llangorren. And no longer there speaks the priest loudly, or authoritatively. The after hours of that night are spent by both of them, not as the owners of the house, but burglars in the act of breaking it!
Up till the hour of dawn, the two might be seen silently flitting from room to room—attended only by Clarisse, who carries the candle—ransacking drawers and secretaires, selecting articles of bijouterie and vertu, of little weight but large value, and packing them in trunks and travelling bags. All of which, under the grey light of morning are taken to the nearest railway station in one of the Court carriages—a large drag-barouche—inside which ride Rogier and Madame Murdock veuve; her femme de chambre having a seat beside the coachman, who has been told they are starting on a continental tour.
And so were they; but it was a tour from which they never returned. Instead, it was extended to a greater distance than they themselves designed, and in a direction neither dreamt of. Since their career, after a years interval, ended in deportation to Cayenne, for some crime committed by them in the South of France. So said the Semaphore of Marseilles.