"Your servants said, milady," he began more quietly, "that you were in the garden. I could not wait until they called you; so I ran to find you. Will you try and forgive me? I ought not to have intruded." "Of course I will forgive you," Marguerite rejoined with a smile, "if you will only tell me what is amiss." He paused a moment, then cried abruptly: "Régine has gone!" Marguerite frowned, puzzled, and murmured slowly, not understanding: "Gone? Whither?" "To Dover," he replied, "with Jacques." "Jacques?" she reiterated, still uncomprehending. "Her brother," he rejoined. "You know the boy?" Marguerite nodded. "Hot-headed, impulsive," Moncrif went on, trying to speak calmly. "He and the girl Joséphine always had it in their minds that they were destined to liberate France from her present state of anarchy and bloodshed." "Like you yourself, M. Moncrif!" Marguerite put in with a smile. "Oh, I became sobered, reasonable, when I realised how futile it all was. We all owe our lives to that noble Scarlet Pimpernel. They were no longer ours to throw away. At least, that was my theory, and Régine's. I have been engaged in business; and she works hard. . . . Oh, but you know!" he exclaimed impulsively. "Yes, I know all your circumstances. But to the point, I pray you!" "Jacques of late has been very excited, feverish. We did not know what was amiss. Régine and I oft spoke of him. And Mme. de Serval has been distraught with anxiety. She worships the boy. He is her only son. But Jacques would not say what was amiss. He spoke to no one. Went to his work every day as usual. Last night he did not come home. A message came for Mme. de Serval to say that a friend in London had persuaded him to go to the play and spend the night with him. Mme. de Serval thought nothing of that. She was pleased to think that Jacques had some amusement to distract him from his brooding thoughts. But Régine, it seems, was not satisfied. After her mother had gone to bed, she went into Jacques' room; found some papers, it seems . . . letters . . . I know not . . . proof in fact that the boy was even then on his way to Dover, having made arrangements to take ship for France." "Mon Dieu!" Marguerite exclaimed involuntarily. "What senseless folly!" "Ah! but that is not the worst. Folly, you say! But there is worse folly still!" With the same febrile movements that characterised his whole attitude, he drew a stained and crumpled letter from his pocket. "She sent me this, this morning," he said. "That is why I came to you." "You mean Régine?" Marguerite asked, and took the letter which he was handing to her. "Yes! She must have brought it round herself . . . to my lodgings . . . in the early dawn. I did not know what to do . . . whom to consult. . . . A blind instinct brought me here . . . I have no other friend . . ." In the meanwhile Marguerite was deciphering the letter, turning a deaf ear to his ramblings.