On a lovely September morning we started for Boulogne-sur-Mer, Madame Alfred de Mellissie, I, and her maid Pauline. M. de Mellissie saw us off at the station.
"I would have run down to Boulogne to put you on board the boat, but that I do not feel well enough; my fever is very bad to-day," he said to me and his wife. She took no notice of the words, but I saw they were true: his pale thin face had a hectic red upon it, his hand, meeting mine in the adieu, burnt me through my glove.
"Madame de Mellissie, your husband certainly has an attack of fever," I said, as the train started.
"Ah, yes, no doubt; the French, as I previously observed, are subject to it. But it never comes to anything."
CHAPTER XI.
CHANDOS.
The station of Hetton, some fifty miles' journey from London on the Great Western line, and two from Chandos, lay hot and bright in the September sun. It was afternoon when we reached it. Madame de Mellissie had preferred to stay a night in London, and go on the next day at leisure. A handsome close carriage was in waiting outside the station, its three attendants wearing the Chandos livery, its panels bearing the arms of the Chandos family, surmounted by the badge of England's baronetage, the bloody hand. The servants lifted their hands to their hats, and respectfully welcomed Madame de Mellissie.
"Is mamma well?" she inquired of them.
"Quite well, madam."
"And my brother? Why is he not here?"
"Mr. Chandos, madam, was obliged to attend a county meeting."