Marten hesitated. Ultimately he applied a lighted match to the papers, threw them into a grate, and watched them burn and curl up in black spirals. When they were still ablaze he gathered the bits of crackling heather, and burnt them, too. "That, then, is the end," he said. "The beginning of the end," said Power, turning to leave the room. It was a very large apartment, and there were windows at each end. Through those on the landward side he saw Nancy riding toward the gates in company with a young married couple who had joined the house party recently. "With your permission, I will wait a few minutes," he said. "Your daughter is just crossing the park; but she will soon be out of sight. I'll dismiss my carriage, and walk home by the cliff path." "Your" daughter. So he really meant to keep his word in letter and spirit! Marten thought him a strange man, a visionary. He had never met such another--undoubtedly, he was half mad! In a little while Power walked out. Then Marten noticed, for the first time, that he moved with a slight limp; the result of some accident, no doubt. Curse him, why wasn't he killed? Then Nancy Marten would have become a princess, with no small likelihood of occupying a throne. For that was Marten's carefully planned scheme. A certain principality was practically in the market. It could be had for money. Money would do anything--almost anything. Today money had failed! * * * * * Power planned to take MacGonigal by surprise. He wrote with purposed vagueness as to his arrival in London, meaning to drop in on his stout friend unexpectedly. He arrived about six o'clock in the evening at the big hotel where Mac was installed, and was informed that "Mr. MacGonigal" was out, but might return at any moment. He secured a suite of rooms, and was crossing the entrance hall, with no other intent than to sit there and await Mac's appearance, when he almost cannoned against a woman--a woman with lustrous, penetrating brown eyes. What was worse, he stood stock still, and stared at her in a way that might well evoke her indignation. But, if she was annoyed, she masked her feelings under an amused smile. "You don't recall me, of course, Mr. Power," she said; "but I remember you quite well--even after twenty years!" "Meg!" he cried. She reddened somewhat. Though wearing a hat and an out-of-doors costume, she was unveiled, and there was no trace of scar or disfigurement on her face. "Marguerite Sinclair, at any rate," she answered. "Sent here by the gods!" he muttered. "Your gods are false gods, Mr. Power. I, for one, don't recognize them as guides." "Marguerite Sinclair!" he went on. "So you are unmarried?" "And you?" she retorted. "I? I am free, at last." "Free?" "Yes. Come with me. We can find a seat somewhere. If you have any engagement, you must break it."