He would be prudent and Europe was wide, and he meant to leave English grants and securities severely alone.

He had mused and pondered on his plans all day.  The evening found him half-exhausted with nerve-strain, febrile and almost sick with the agony of waiting.

He had calculated that Sue would be free towards seven o’clock, as he had given Editha strict injunctions to keep discreetly out of the way, whilst at a previous meeting in the park, it had been arranged that the young girl should come to the cottage with the money, on the evening of her twenty-first birthday and there hand her fortune over to her rightful lord.

Now Sir Marmaduke cursed himself and his folly for having made this arrangement.  He had not known—­when he made it—­that Richard would be back at Acol then.  Adam the smith, never came home before eight o’clock and the old Quakeress herself would not have been much in the way.

Even now she had shuffled back into her kitchen, leaving her ill-humored lodger to puff away at the malodorous weed as he chose.  But Richard might return at any moment, and then ...

Sir Marmaduke had never thought of that possible contingency.  If Richard Lambert came face to face with him, he would of a surety pierce the disguise of the prince, and recognize the man who had so deeply wronged poor, unsuspecting Lady Sue.  If only a kindly Fate had kept the young man away another twenty-four hours! or better still, if it led the despairing lover’s footsteps to the extremest edge of the cliffs!

Sir Marmaduke now paced the narrow room up and down in an agony of impatience.  Nine o’clock had struck long ago, but Sue had not yet come.  The wildest imaginings run riot in the schemer’s brain:  every hour, nay! every minute spent within was fraught with danger.  He sought his broad-brimmed hat, determined now to meet Sue in the park, to sally forth at risk of missing her, at risk of her arriving here at the cottage when he was absent, and of her meeting Richard Lambert perhaps, before the irrevocable deed of gift had been accomplished.

But the suspense was intolerable.

With a violent oath Sir Marmaduke pressed the hat over his head, and strode to the door.

His hand was on the latch, when he heard a faint sound from without:  a girl’s footsteps, timorous yet swift, along the narrow flagged path which led down the tiny garden gate.

The next moment he had thrown open the door and Sue stood before him.

Anyone but a bold and unscrupulous schemer would have been struck by the pathos of the solitary figure which now appeared in the tiny doorway.  The penetrating November drizzle had soaked through the dark cloak and hood which now hung heavy and dank round the young girl’s shoulders.  Framed by the hood, her face appeared preternaturally pale, her lips were quivering and her eyes, large and dilated, had almost a hunted look in them.