“I trust that everything is arranged for your comfort, Lady Blakeney.” “I thank you, sir.” “You will be rejoining the 'Day-Dream' to-night. Can I send a messenger over to the yacht for you?” “I thank you. No.” “Sir Percy is well. He is fast asleep, and hath not asked for your ladyship. Shall I let him know that you are well?” A nod of acquiescence from Marguerite and Chauvelin's string of queries was at an end. He marvelled at her quietude and thought that she should have been as restless as himself. Later on in the day, and egged on by Collot d'Herbois and by his own fears, he had caused Marguerite to be removed from No. 6. This change he heralded by another brief visit to her, and his attitude this time was one of deferential apology. “A matter of expediency, Lady Blakeney,” he explained, “and I trust that the change will be for your comfort.” Again the same curt nod of acquiescence on her part, and a brief: “As you command, Monsieur!” But when he had gone, she turned with a sudden passionate outburst towards the Abbe Foucquet, her faithful companion through the past long, weary hours. She fell on her knees beside him and sobbed in an agony of grief. “Oh! if I could only know... if I could only see him!... for a minute... a second!... if I could only know!...” She felt as if the awful uncertainty would drive her mad. If she could only know! If she could only know what he meant to do. “The good God knows!” said the old man, with his usual simple philosophy, “and perhaps it is all for the best.” The room which Chauvelin had now destined for Marguerite was one which gave from the larger one, wherein last night he had had his momentous interview with her and with Sir Percy. It was small, square and dark, with no window in it: only a small ventilating hole high up in the wall and heavily grated. Chauvelin, who desired to prove to her that there was no wish on his part to add physical discomfort to her mental tortures, had given orders that the little place should be made as habitable as possible. A thick, soft carpet had been laid on the ground; there was an easy chair and a comfortable-looking couch with a couple of pillows and a rug upon it, and oh, marvel! on the round central table, a vase with a huge bunch of many-coloured dahlias which seemed to throw a note as if of gladness into this strange and gloomy little room. At the furthest corner, too, a construction of iron uprights and crossway bars had been hastily contrived and fitted with curtains, forming a small recess, behind which was a tidy washstand, fine clean towels and plenty of fresh water. Evidently the shops of Boulogne had been commandeered in order to render Marguerite's sojourn here outwardly agreeable. But as the place was innocent of window, so was it innocent of doors. The one that gave into the large room had been taken out of its hinges, leaving only the frame, on each side of which stood a man from the municipal guard with fixed bayonet.