They would have been altogether happy, these long days of convalescence, but for his enforced absence from his duties, and the distressing news that came from the front.

Lord Raglan had never recovered from the disappointment of the 18th of June.  The failure of the attack, and the loss of many personal friends, preyed upon his spirits, and he suddenly became seriously ill.  He never rallied, sank rapidly, and died in a couple of days, to the great grief of the whole army.

No one felt it more than McKay, to whom the sad news was broken by his old chief.

“It is very painful to think,” said Sir Richard Airey, “that he passed away at the moment of failure; that he was not spared to see the fortress fall—­for it must fall.”

“Of course it must, sir,” said McKay.  “This last attack ought to have succeeded.  The Russians were in sore straits.”

“It was the French who spoiled everything by their premature advance.  I knew we could do nothing until they had taken the Malakoff.  That is the key of the position.”

“You are right, sir.  I myself heard Todleben say those very words.”

“Did you?  That is important intelligence.  It must not be forgotten when the time comes to organise a fresh attack.”

“I shall be well then, I hope, sir, and able to go in with the first column.  I think I could show the way.”

“At any rate you can say more than most of us, for you have been actually inside the place.”

“And shall be again, if you will only wait another month!” cried McKay.

But the doctors laughed at him when he talked like this.

“You will not be able to put your foot to the ground for three months or more, and then you must make up your mind to crutches for another six.”

“I shall not see the next attack, then?”

“No; but you will see England before many weeks are gone.  We are going to send you home at once.”

“But I had much rather not go—­” began McKay.

“It’s no use talking; everything is settled.”

And so it came to pass.  The good ship Burlington Castle, Bartholomew Faulks, master, having filled up its complement of invalids and wounded men, including Captain Stanislas McKay, steamed westward about the middle of July.

CHAPTER XII.

IN LINCOLN’S INN.

Ledantec, alias Hobson, had at once reported progress to Mrs. Wilders.  The day after his arrival in Paris she had heard from him.  He wrote—­

“Have no fears.  The police are on his track.  They have his exact description, and are watching at the Mairie.  Directly he shows himself he will be arrested as Rupert Gascoigne, tried, condemned.  They do these things well in France.  You will never hear of him again.”

There was much to quiet and console her in these words.  After the dreadful surprise of Rupert’s reappearance she had been a prey to the keenest anxiety.  The whole edifice, built up with such patient, unscrupulous effort, had threatened to crumble away.  Bitter disappointment seemed inevitable just when her highest hopes were nearest fulfilment.