Marguerite’s breath stopped short; she seemed to feel her very life standing still momentarily whilst she listened to that voice and to that song. In the singer she had recognised her husband.
Chauvelin, too, had heard it, for he darted a quick glance towards the door, then hurriedly took up his broad-brimmed hat and clapped it over his head.
The voice drew nearer; for one brief second the wild desire seized Marguerite to rush down the steps and fly across the room, to stop that song at any cost, to beg the cheerful singer to fly—fly for his life, before it be too late.
She checked the impulse just in time. Chauvelin would stop her before she reached the door, and, moreover, she had no idea if he had any soldiers posted within his call. Her impetuous act might prove the death-signal of the man she would have died to save.
'Long to reign over us, God save the King! ' sang the voice more lustily than ever. The next moment the door was thrown open and there was dead silence for a second or so. Marguerite could not see the door: she held her breath, trying to imagine what was happening.
Percy Blakeney on entering had, of course, at once caught sight of the curé at the table; his hesitation lasted less than five seconds, the next moment Marguerite saw his tall figure crossing the room, whilst he called in a loud, cheerful voice,— 'Hello, there! no one about?
Where’s that fool Brogard? ' He wore the magnificent coat and riding-suit which he had on when Marguerite last saw him at Richmond, so many hours ago.
As usual, his get-up was absolutely irreproachable, the fine Mechlin lace at his neck and wrists was immaculate in its gossamer daintiness, his hands looked