Marguerite burst into a long, merry peal of laughter.

“Why do you stare at me like that?” she said playfully. “I assure you I feel much better; your remedy has proved most effectual. This room is most delightfully cool,” she added, with the same perfect composure, “and the sound of the gavotte from the ball-room is fascinating and soothing.”

She was prattling on in the most unconcerned and pleasant way, whilst Sir Andrew, in an agony of mind, was racking his brains as to the quickest method he could employ to get that bit of paper out of that beautiful woman’s hand. Instinctively, vague and tumultuous thoughts rushed through his mind: he suddenly remembered her nationality, and worst of all, recollected that horrible tale anent the Marquis de St. Cyr, which in England no one had credited, for the sake of Sir Percy, as well as for her own.

“What? Still dreaming and staring?” she said, with a merry laugh, “you are most ungallant, Sir Andrew; and now I come to think of it, you seemed more startled than pleased when you saw me just now. I do believe, after all, that it was not concern for my health, nor yet a remedy taught you by your grandmother that caused you to burn this tiny scrap of paper … I vow it must have been your lady love’s last cruel epistle you were trying to destroy. Now confess!” she added, playfully holding up the scrap of paper, “does this contain her final congè, or a last appeal to kiss and make friends?”

“Whichever it is, Lady Blakeney,” said Sir Andrew, who was gradually recovering his self-possession, “this little note is undoubtedly mine, and…”

Not caring whether his action was one that would be styled ill-bred towards a lady, the young man had made a bold dash for the note; but Marguerite’s thoughts flew quicker than his own; her actions, under pressure of this intense excitement, were swifter and more sure. She was tall and strong; she took a quick step backwards and knocked over the small Sheraton table which was already top-heavy, and which fell down with a crash, together with the massive candelabra upon it.

She gave a quick cry of alarm:

“The candles, Sir Andrew—quick!”

There was not much damage done; one or two of the candles had blown out as the candelabra fell; others had merely sent some grease upon the valuable carpet; one had ignited the paper shade over it. Sir Andrew quickly and dexterously put out the flames and replaced the candelabra upon the table; but this had taken him a few seconds to do, and those seconds had been all that Marguerite needed to cast a quick glance at the paper, and to note its contents—a dozen words in the same distorted handwriting she had seen before, and bearing the same device—a star-shaped flower drawn in red ink.

When Sir Andrew once more looked at her, he only saw on her face alarm at the untoward accident and relief at its happy issue; whilst the tiny and momentous note had apparently fluttered to the ground. Eagerly the young man picked it up, and his face looked much relieved, as his fingers closed tightly over it.

“For shame, Sir Andrew,” she said, shaking her head with a playful sigh, “making havoc in the heart of some impressionable duchess, whilst conquering the affections of my sweet little Suzanne. Well, well! I do believe it was Cupid himself who stood by you, and threatened the entire Foreign Office with destruction by fire, just on purpose to make me drop love’s message, before it had been polluted by my indiscreet eyes. To think that, a moment longer, and I might have known the secrets of an erring duchess.”

“You will forgive me, Lady Blakeney,” said Sir Andrew, now as calm as she was herself, “if I resume the interesting occupation which you had interrupted?”