There were no exclamations or protestations between them. She merely said quite simply: "I am glad that you came to say 'good-bye!'" The park was open here. The nearest trees were some fifty paces away, and in the ghostly darkness they could just perceive one another's silhouettes. The mist enveloped them as with a shroud, the damp cold air caused them to shiver as under the embrace of death. "It is good-bye," he rejoined calmly. "Mayhap that I shall go abroad soon," she said. "With that man?" The cry broke out from the bitterness of his heart, but a cold little hand was placed restrainingly on his. "When I go ... if I go," she murmured, "I shall do so with my husband.... You see, my friend, do you not, that there is naught else to say but 'good-bye'?" "And you will be happy, Sue?" he asked. "I hope so!" she sighed wistfully. "You will always remember, will you not, my dear lady, that wherever you may be, there is always someone in remote Thanet, who is ready at any time to give his life for you?" "Yes! I will remember," she said simply. "And you must promise me," he insisted, "promise me now, Sue, that if ... which Heaven forbid ... you are in any trouble or sorrow, and I can do aught for you, that you will let me know and send for me ... and I will come." "Yes, Richard, I promise.... Good-bye." And she was gone. The mist, the gloom hid her completely from view. He waited by the little bridge, for the night was still and he would have heard if she called. He heard her light footsteps on the gravel, then on the flagged walk. Anon came the sound of the opening and shutting of a door. After that, silence: the silence of a winter's night, when not a breath of wind stirs the dead branches of the trees, when woodland and field and park are wrapped in the shroud of the mist. Richard Lambert turned back towards the village. Sue--married to another man--had passed out of his life forever. CHAPTER XXX ALL BECAUSE OF THE TINDER-BOX How oft it is in life that Fate, leading a traveler in easy gradients upwards along a road of triumph, suddenly assumes a madcap mood and with wanton hand throws a tiny obstacle in his way; an obstacle at times infinitesimal, scarce visible on that way towards success, yet powerful enough to trip the unwary traveler and bring him down to earth with sudden and woeful vigor. With Sir Marmaduke so far everything had prospered according to his wish. He had inveigled the heiress into a marriage which bound her to his will, yet left him personally free; she had placed her fortune unreservedly and unconditionally in his hands, and had, so far as he knew, not even suspected the treachery practiced upon her by her guardian. Not a soul had pierced his disguise, and the identity of Prince Amédé d'Orléans was unknown even to his girl-wife.