“Thank goodness we’re here at last!” she exclaimed.

Storran put out his hand to steady her as the train jolted to a standstill.

“Yes, we’re here at last,” he said.  “Now to find a vehicle of some description to take us out to Armanches.”

As he had suggested it would, Gillian’s collapse had delayed them some time.  Probably she had caught a slight chill while travelling, and that, together with the fatigue from which she was suffering, combined to keep her in bed at the hotel in Rome for a couple of days.

When the slight feverishness had abated, she slept the greater part of the time, her weary body exacting the price for all those wakeful hours she had passed on the train.  But it was not until four days had elapsed that Dan would agree to a resumption of the journey.  Even then, consent was only wrung from him by the fear that she would fret herself ill over any further delay.  He did not consider her by any means fit to travel.  But Gillian was game to the core, and they had reached Bayeux without further contretemps.

“The thing that puzzles me,” she said as they started on the long drive from Bayeux to Armanches, “is why Michael didn’t send his Normandy address to Madame Ribot.  We should have been saved all that long journey to Rome if he had.”

“Perhaps he intended to, and forgot,” suggested Dan.  “Artists are proverbially absent-minded.”

But Gillian shook her head with a dissatisfied air.  Michael was not of the absent-minded type.

Armanches was a tiny place on the Normandy coast, in reality not much more than a fishing village, but its possession of a beautiful plage—­smooth, fine, golden sands—­brought many visitors to the old-fashioned hostelry it boasted.

The landlady, a smiling, rosy-cheeked woman, with a chubby little brown-faced son hiding shy embarrassment behind her ample skirts, greeted the travellers hospitably.  But when they mentioned Quarrington’s name a look of sympathetic concern overspread her comely face.

Yes, he was there.  And of course madame could not know, but he had been ill, seriously ill with la grippe—­taken ill the very day he had arrived, nearly a month ago.  He had a nurse.  Oh, yes!  One had come from Bayeux.  But this influenza!  It was a veritable scourge.  One was here to-day and gone to-morrow.  However, Michael Quarrington was recovering, the saints be praised!  Monsieur and madame wished to see him?  The good woman looked doubtful.  She would inquire.  What name?  Grey?  But there was a telegram awaiting madame!

Gillian’s face blanched as the landlady bustled away in search of the wire.  Had Magda already——­Oh, but that was impossible!  Lady Arabella was in charge at that end, and Gillian had a great belief in Lady Arabella’s capacity to deal with any crisis that might arise.  Nevertheless, they had wired her the Normandy address from Rome, in case of necessity.  The next moment Gillian had torn open the telegram and she and Dan were reading it together.