* * * * *

“Creil!”

A flashing vision of a station and its lights, and the Paris train rushed on through cold showers of sleet and driving wind, a return of winter in the heart of spring.

On they sped through the half-hour which still divided them from the Gare du Nord.  Julie, in her thick veil, sat motionless in her corner.  She was not conscious of any particular agitation.  Her mind was strained not to forget any of Warkworth’s directions.  She was to drive across immediately to the Gare de Sceaux, in the Place Denfert-Rochereau, where he would meet her.  They were to dine at an obscure inn near the station, and go down by the last train to the little town in the wooded valley of the Bievre, where they were to stay.

She had her luggage with her in the carriage.  There would be no custom-house delays.

Ah, the lights of Paris beginning!  She peered into the rain, conscious of a sort of home-coming joy.  She loved the French world and the French sights and sounds—­these tall, dingy houses of the banlieue, the dregs of a great architecture; the advertisements; the look of the streets.

The train slackened into the Nord Station.  The blue-frocked porters crowded into the carriages.

“C’est tout, madame?  Vous n’avez pas de grands bagages?”

“No, nothing.  Find me a cab at once.”

There was a great crowd outside.  She hurried on as quickly as she could, revolving what was to be said if any acquaintance were to accost her.  By great good luck, and by travelling second class both in the train and on the boat, she had avoided meeting anybody she knew.  But the Nord Station was crowded with English people, and she pushed her way through in a nervous terror.

“Miss Le Breton!”

She turned abruptly.  In the white glare of the electric lights she did not at first recognize the man who had spoken to her.  Then she drew back.  Her heart beat wildly.  For she had distinguished the face of Jacob Delafield.

He came forward to meet her as she passed the barrier at the end of the platform, his aspect full of what seemed to her an extraordinary animation, significance, as though she were expected.

“Miss Le Breton!  What an astonishing, what a fortunate meeting!  I have a message for you from Evelyn.”

“From Evelyn?” She echoed the words mechanically as she shook hands.

“Wait a moment,” he said, leading her aside towards the waiting-room, while the crowd that was going to the douane passed them by.  Then he turned to Julie’s porter.

“Attendez un instant.”

The man sulkily shook his head, dropped Julie’s bag at their feet, and hurried off in search of a more lucrative job.

“I am going back to-night,” added Delafield, hurriedly.  “How strange that I should have met you, for I have very sad news for you!  Lord Lackington had an attack this morning, from which he cannot recover.  The doctors give him perhaps forty-eight hours.  He has asked for you—­urgently.  The Duchess tells me so in a long telegram I had from her to-day.  But she supposed you to be in Bruges.  She has wired there.  You will go back, will you not?”