"Of course, miss," he said roughly, "you don't know what has happened?" "No," she said, too greatly surprised to resent his strange manner. "Well," he growled, "somebody's been nearly killed on your account, that's all." "Somebody," she repeated, and her lips went white. "Yes, you ought to guess well enough who it is. He and that rotten Frenchman fought a duel this morning on the sands near Calais, and Marinny as good as murdered him." Dale's heart was sore against her as the cause of his master's plight, but even in his own distress he was quick to see the shrinking terror in the girl's eyes. "Are you speaking of Mr. Fitzroy?" she demanded. "Are you telling the truth? Oh, for Heaven's sake, man, tell me what you mean." "I mean what I say, miss," said he more softly. "I have left him almost at death's door in an hotel at Calais. That damned Frenchman ... I beg your pardon, miss, but I can't contain myself when I think of him--ran a sword through him this morning, and would have killed him outright if he hadn't been stopped by some other gentlemen. And now, there he is, a-lying in the hotel, with a doctor and a nurse trying to coax the life back into him, while I had to scurry back here to tell his people." Some women might have shrieked and fainted--not so Cynthia. At that instant there was one thing to be done, and one only. She saw the open road, and took it without faltering or thought as to the future. "When is the next train to Calais?" she asked. "At nine o'clock to-night, miss." "Oh, God!" she wailed under her breath. Dale's voice grew even more sympathetic. "Was you a-thinking of going to him, miss?" he asked. "Would that I could fly there," she moaned. He scratched the back of his ear, for it was by such means that Dale sought inspiration. "Dash it all!" he cried. "I wish I had seen you half an hour earlier. There is a train that leaves Charing Cross at twenty minutes past two. It goes by way of Folkestone and Boulogne, and from Boulogne one can get easy to Calais. Anyhow, what's the use of talkin'--it is too late." Cynthia glanced at her watch. It was just twenty-five minutes to three. "How far is Folkestone?" was the immediate demand generated by her practical American brain. "Seventy-two miles," said the chauffeur, who knew his roads out of London. "And what time does the boat leave?" A light irradiated his face, and he swore volubly. "We can do it!" he shouted. "By the Lord, we can do it! Are you game?" Game? The light that leaped to her eyes was sufficient answer. He tore open the door of the cab, roaring to the driver: "Round that corner to the right--quick--then into the mews at the back!"