About a mile from Lérouville she came to the cross-roads, the one to the south leading over the hills to Vigneulles, while the one to the north joined the highway to Longuyon. For a moment she paused, then turning into the latter road, which at that point was little more than a byway, hurried on until she came to the fringe of a wood, where, upon her approach, a man in dark grey tweeds came forth to meet her with swinging gait.
It was Walter Fetherston.
He strode quickly in her direction, and when they met he held her small hand in his and for a moment gazed into her dark eyes without uttering a word.
"At last!" he cried. "I was afraid that you had not received my message—that it might have been intercepted."
"I got it early this morning," was her reply, her cheeks flushing with pleasure; "but I was unable to get away before my father and Blanche went out. They pressed me to go with them, so I had to plead a headache."
"I am so glad we've met," Fetherston said. "I have been here in the vicinity for days, yet I feared to come near you lest your father should recognise me."
"But why are you here?" she inquired, strolling slowly at his side. "I thought you were in London."
"I'm seldom in London," he responded. "Nowadays I am constantly on the move."
"Travelling in search of fresh material for your books, I suppose? I read in a paper the other day that you never describe a place in your stories without first visiting it. If so, you must travel a great deal," the girl remarked.
"I do," he answered briefly. "And very often I travel quickly."