The next day rose dark and stormy, and Hardcastle trembled to think of the effect a rough passage might have on Mr. Warden in his weak state of health. He did not, however, offer any farther opposition to their journey, knowing it would be useless, and besides this, an undefinable feeling in his own mind kept urging him on to the native land of the two Aimées. “I cannot explain why,” he said to himself, as they landed at Boulogne in the chill early dawn of the following day, “but I somehow feel as if we had only now struck upon the right track, and that all we have hitherto done has been so much lost time. I know there must be a reason for this feeling; some finer sense in my being must have seized upon some fact in this strange history which my coarser and more logical faculties have failed to perceive.” So occupied was he with his own thoughts, that he had not noticed that he had become separated from his companion in the narrow landing-place, and had drifted into a crowd of porters, with their various loads, making for the custom-house. Where was Mr. Warden? He looked right and left along the Quai, and there, standing half hidden behind some bales, stood the same tall grey figure he had noticed at Charing Cross Station. It was unmistakable now; the woman, for some reason, was evidently watching and following them; and, doubtful whether their separation was accidental or intentional, was at a loss whom she should keep in sight. Following the turn of her head, Lord Hardcastle could see Mr. Warden some little way in advance, and, hastening towards him, the woman suddenly passed in front, and disappeared down some narrow passage. “Let her go,” thought Hardcastle; “somewhere, somehow, we may meet again. I shall know her long stooping figure and swinging gait anywhere.” Then, hastening forward, he soon overtook Mr. Warden, and calling a carriage, desired to be driven to the Hotel de la Cloche, situated somewhere in the heart of the town. Lord Hardcastle had foreseen before starting that their journey must necessarily be performed by easy stages; they had, therefore, booked only as far as to Boulogne, intending to rest there a day or two to decide upon their route to Le Puy. The Hotel de la Cloche stands in one of the quietest parts of the town, a little back from the broad, brick-built street, in a grassy, moss-grown quadrangle. An arched corridor runs round this quadrangle, and above this are built the various outbuildings of the hotel. A small fountain, with an insufficient supply of water, plays in the courtyard, and very miserable and dreary it looked under the dull November sky from the windows of the room which Mr. Warden had selected for a sitting-room.