She was surprised, and began to be a little anxious. “Not yet?” And yet she had stayed a long time at the gaol, and evening was coming on. Mr. Roquevillard had gone out only for a short walk. He expected Mr. Hamel and Mr. Battard at five o’clock, to make the last arrangements with them for to-morrow’s trial. His prolonged absence under such circumstances was strange. “But there is a gentleman in the drawing-room who asked to see you,” the servant now added. “To see me?” “Yes, miss.” “Who is it?” “He told me his name, but I don’t remember it. A doctor.” She was a girl from the country, not yet quite used to her new ways, and unfamiliar with the names and faces of the town’s people. “You ought not to have let him in, Melanie,” said Margaret reproachfully. “To-day of all days.” “That’s right, miss, I thought so, too. But he would not go away. He brought a message for you.” Margaret went into the drawing-room against her will, keeping on her hat and mourning veil as a hint to the importunate visitor to depart. She found herself face to face with Raymond Bercy. “Miss Roquevillard,” he murmured, as much overcome as she was. She recoiled from him instinctively, and he espied the movement, and with an entreating voice he tried to make her stay. “Miss Margaret, forgive me for having come. I learned last night of your sorrow. Then----” “Mr. Bercy,” she said, coming forward. This one formal phrase, firmly uttered, kept him at a distance, seemed to deny him the right to plead. Like her father, she deprecated pity. The man who had been betrothed to her bent his head, disconcerted, and kept silent. “Why did you insist upon seeing me, sir, to-day?” she said again more gently. He raised his eyes to her, with an imploring and humble look. “Because to-morrow it would have been too late,” he sighed. “Too late? To-morrow? You’ve something to tell me? Is it about Maurice?”