was being enacted here.

Sir Andrew had not uttered another word. Then it was that
that extra sense became potent in Marguerite Blakeney. She could not

see, for her two eyes were closed, she could not hear, for the noise
from the ball-room drowned the soft rustle of that momentous scrap of

paper; nevertheless she knew-as if she had both seen and heard--that
Sir Andrew was even now holding the paper to the flame of one of the

candles.
At the exact moment that it began to catch fire, she opened

her eyes, raised her hand and, with two dainty fingers, had taken the
burning scrap of paper from the young man's hand. Then she blew out

the flame, and held the paper to her nostril with perfect unconcern.
"How thoughtful of you, Sir Andrew," she said gaily, "surely

'twas your grandmother who taught you that the smell of burnt paper
was a sovereignremedy against giddiness."

She sighed with satisfaction, holding the paper tightly
between her jewelled fingers; that talisman which perhaps would save

her brother Armand's life. Sir Andrew was staring at her, too dazed
for the moment to realize what had actually happened; he had been

taken so completely by surprise, that he seemed quite unable to grasp
the fact that the slip of paper, which she held in her dainty hand,

was one perhaps on which the life of his comrade might depend.
Marguerite burst into a long, merry peal of laughter.

"Why do you stare at me like that?" she said playfully. "I
assure you I feel much better; your remedy has proved most effectual.

This room is most delightedly cool," she added, with the same perfect
composure, "and the sound of the gavotte from the ball-room is

fascinating and soothing."
She was prattling on in the most unconcerned and pleasant way,

whilst Sir Andrew, in an agony of mind, was racking his brains as to
the quickest method he could employ to get that bit of paper out of

that beautiful woman's hand. Instinctively, vague and tumultuous
thoughts rushed through his mind: he suddenly remembered her

nationality, and worst of all, recollected that horrible take anent
the Marquis de St. Cyr, which in England no one had credited, for the

sake of Sir Percy, as well as for her own.
"What? Still dreaming and staring?" she said, with a merry

laugh, "you are most ungallant, Sir Andrew; and now I come to think of
it, you seemed more startled than pleased when you saw me just now. I

do believe, after all, that it was not concern for my health, nor yet
a remedy taught you by your grandmother that caused you to burn this

tiny scrap of paper. . . . I vow it must have been your lady love's
last cruel epistle you were trying to destroy. Now confess!" she

added, playfully holding up the scrap of paper, "does this contain her
final CONGE, or a last appeal to kiss and make friends?"

"Whichever it is, Lady Blakeney," said Sir Andrew, who was
gradually recovering his self-possession, "this little note is

undoubtedly mine, and. . ."
Not caring whether his action was one that would be styled

ill-bred towards a lady, the young man had made a bold dash for the
note; but Marguerite's thoughts flew quicker than his own; her actions

under pressure of this intenseexcitement" target="_blank" title="n.兴奋；骚动；煽动">excitement, were swifter and more sure.
She was tall and strong; she took a quick step backwards and knocked

over the small Sheraton table which was already top-heavy, and which
fell down with a crash, together with the massive candelabra upon it.

She gave a quick cry of alarm:
"The candles, Sir Andrew--quick!"

There was not much damage done; one or two of the candles had
blown out as the candelabra fell; others had merely sent some grease

upon the valuablecarpet; one had ignited the paper shade aver it.
Sir Andrew quickly and dexterously put out the flames and replaced the

candelabra upon the table; but this had taken him a few seconds to do,
and those seconds had been all that Marguerite needed to cast a quick

glance at the paper, and to note its contents--a dozen words in the
same distorted handwriting she had seen before, and bearing the same

device--a star-shaped flower drawn in red ink.
When Sir Andrew once more looked at her, he only saw upon her

face alarm at the untoward accident and relief at its happy issue;
whilst the tiny and momentous note had apparently fluttered to the

ground. Eagerly the young man picked it up, and his face looked much
relieved, as his fingers closed tightly over it.

"For shame, Sir Andrew," she said, shaking her head with a
playful sigh, "making havoc in the heart of some impressionable

duchess, whilst conquering the affections of my sweet little Suzanne.
Well, well! I do believe it was Cupid himself who stood by you, and

threatened the entire Foreign Office with destruction by fire, just on
purpose to make me drop love's message, before it had been polluted by

my indiscreet eyes. To think that, a moment longer, and I might have
known the secrets of an erring duchess."

"You will forgive me, Lady Blakeney," said Sir Andrew, now as
calm as she was herself, "if I resume the interesting occupation which

you have interrupted?"
"By all means, Sir Andrew! How should I venture to thwart the

love-god again? Perhaps he would mete out some terrible chastisement
against my presumption. Burn your love-token, by all means!"

Sir Andrew had already twisted the paper into a long spill,
and was once again holding it to the flame of the candle, which had

remained alight. He did not notice the strange smile on the face of
his fair VIS-A-VIS, so intent was he on the work of destruction;

perhaps, had he done so, the look of relief would have faded from his
face. He watched the fateful note, as it curled under the flame.

Soon the last fragment fell on the floor, and he placed his heel upon
the ashes.

"And now, Sir Andrew," said Marguerite Blakeney, with the
pretty nonchalance peculiar to herself, and with the most winning of

smiles, "will you venture to excite the jealousy of your fair lady by
asking me to dance the minuet?"

CHAPTER XIII EITHER--OR?
The few words which Marguerite Blakeney had managed to read on

the half-scorched piece of paper, seemed literally to be the words of
Fate. "Start myself tomorrow. . . ." This she had read quite

distinctly; then came a blur caused by the smoke of the candle, which
obliterated the next few words; but, right at the bottom, there was

another sentence, like letters of fire, before her mentalvision, "If
you wish to speak to me again I shall be in the supper-room at one

o'clock precisely." The whole was signed with the hastily-scrawled
little device--a tiny star-shaped flower, which had become so familiar

to her.
One o'clock precisely! It was now close upon eleven, the last

minuet was being danced, with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and beautiful Lady
Blakeney leading the couples, through its delicate and intricate

figures.
Close upon eleven! the hands of the handsome Louis XV. clock

upon its ormolu bracket seemed to move along with maddening rapidity.
Two hours more, and her fate and that of Armand would be sealed. In

two hours she must make up her mind whether she will keep the
knowledge so cunningly gained to herself, and leave her brother to his

fate, or whether she will wilfully betray a brave man, whose life was
devoted to his fellow-men, who was noble, generous, and above all,

unsuspecting. It seemed a horrible thing to do. But then, there was
Armand! Armand, too, was noble and brave, Armand, too, was

unsuspecting. And Armand loved her, would have willingly trusted his
life in her hands, and now, when she could save him from death, she

hesitated. Oh! it was monstrous; her brother's kind, gentle face, so
full of love for her, seemed to be looking reproachfully at her. "You

might have saved me, Margot!" he seemed to say to her, "and you chose
the life of a stranger, a man you do not know, whom you have never

seen, and preferred that he should be safe, whilst you sent me to the
guillotine!"

All these conflicting thoughts raged through Marguerite's
brain, while, with a smile upon her lips, she glided through the