now settled on this, and he felt a strange
curiosity to know the reason of this secresy.

Suddenly a figure in a cloak passed them
hurriedly, stopped, came back a little, and
looked hard into his face. They were close
beside an old open porte cochère, over which
hung a dim lamp.

"I was just hurrying to your house," she
heard the stranger say. "I was in Paris yesterday.
She was asking to see you, and I have
come at once."

Margaret did not wait to hear more; she
darted away in a moment. Even as she did
so, Vivian had seen the figure, turned round
uneasily, and even with a misgiving.

West came home pacing about the room in
his usual dismal beat, and with the gentle
Constance sitting near. She had long since
discovered how hopeless were the common-places
of comfort in his case; and that much more
soothing would be a mere gentle remark of
sympathy. The news of that day had wrought on him
miserably, and he was only now recovering
from the blow, declaiming almost frantically.

"How can I stand it?—how can it please me
to see her married to him? I should fly from
this place. And yet, if I did, I could only
return again. She could not do it—she dare
not do it!"

At this moment entered Margaret. She
carried one of the little old French argand lamps in
her hand, and it lit up her hard face. There
was a smile of triumph on it.

"Don't let that disturb you, Gilbert," she said.
"Let him promise and swear to her as much as
he please. I have discovered something.
If you would come with me to Paris to-
night—"

"To-night!" He started. " Why?"

"Because he is going."

"He going, leaving her! I knew he would
do it. Thank Heaven, I shall be avenged!"

"Perhaps so. If we are fortunate, he may
never return!"

West looked at her, wondering and excited.
Then his face fell.

"I should not have the heart to do it. I
could not sit in a carriage for that long journey.
My heart would flutter itself away
in impatience. I should be in agonies.
This is fancy, I know; but I dare not face
it. No, no, Margaret; give up this wild
notion; and," added he, a little wildly
himself, " we had better stay and watch her."

Constance, who had not spoken yet, now
interposed, softly yet firmly:

"Gilbert, Gilbert, this is destroying you.
What are these people to you now? What
can she be to you? Surely, after all
these dreadful things that have passed, the
old state can never return? And this watching
and following is only perpetuating our
wretchedness. Dearest Gilbert, you know
I love and feel and would die for you; and, oh!
would it not be best for you to have done with
it all at once and for ever? It would be a great
trial at first, but, in the end, for the best."

Margaret turned on her with scorn and anger.
Of late she had noticed this tone of advice in
Constance, and had met it with grim and cold
opposition.

" So this is your advice! I should despise
him if he listened to you. It is as foolish, as
contemptible. What claim have you to give
advice? You can't see that, if he did go, he
would be back here in a week. Don't interfere
in these things. Keep to your serving and
your schooling; above all, don't interfere with
me. I have his interest more at heart than
any one living, and a thing like this cannot be
left half way. Listen, Gilbert. You can stay,
if you will, but some one shall go—and I, if no
one else."

He started, yet did not oppose. There was
excitement in all this. It led up to something;
it was something to look forward to, which, to
the diseased mind, is a relief.

"I have my passion, my humour," said Margaret,
as she hurriedly went about her preparations,
" which will not let me rest. I must
satisfy it. To make retribution overtake that
man is what I live for—the man that has
destroyed you, Gilbert."

No one opposed her. There was a grave
old French bonne who lived with them, and her
Margaret determined to take with her.

CHAPTER XXXII. ON THE TRACK.

AT Sody's, the diligence was just starting,
the great Normand ponies neighing and
plunging, mountains of baggage piled on the
top, and lanterns flitting about. Presently
the two came up. Tiie luggage was up, the
driver in his place giving a skilful crack of his
whip—a report like a pistol-shot. Heads were
looking out of the window, and the conductor
had to call to the two gentlemen, who were talking
together, " En voiture, messieurs!" At the
last moment a lady and her maid came and
found places inside. Then it rolled away on
what was then the most terrible and the
weariest of all journeys, the most excruciating of
purgatories—cramping and sore for the limbs,
exhausting, famishing, and perilous. Some
found sleep, through that long night of jolting
and banging, by the ingenious strap in the roof,
on which sore elbows rested, and over which
heavy heads nodded. A long night for
Margaret! She never nodded, though the old bonne
did, who had never been further than Hâvre in
her whole life. Margaret kept stark, and stiff,
and wakeful, until the grey morning began to
break. She knew he was separated from her
but by a panel. The long strange night had
passed by—dramatic often, when, on a sudden
stop and calm, the weary stupified passengers
would raise their heads from the strap, look out
at the flaring lamps dancing about, peer through
the little small-paned window, and see an
inviting village inn or post-house, with the glimpse
of a fire. They would give worlds for the little
snowy chamber, the peace, the calm. But they
must go on; for now comes the sudden drag,