The Lane That Had No Turning, Complete. Gilbert Parker

it to Madelinette, nodding and looking wise, yet half timorous too in sharing in so remarkable a business. Madelinette glanced at the pistol, her lips tightened, and she shuddered. Havel had evidently failed, and she must face the worst. Yet now that it had come, she was none the less determined to fight on.

      Havel opened his eyes and looked round in a startled way. He saw Madelinette.

      “Ah, Madame, Madame, pardon! He got away. I fired twice and winged him, but he shot my horse and I fell on my head. He has got away. What time is it, Madame?” he suddenly asked. She told him. “Ah, it is too late,” he added. “It happened over half-an-hour ago. Unless he is badly hurt and has fallen by the way, he is now in the city. Madame, I have failed you—pardon, Madame!”

      She helped him to sit up, and made a cushion of her cloak for his head, in a corner of the coach. “There is nothing to ask pardon for, Havel,” she said; “you did your best. It was to be—that’s all. Drink the brandy now.”

      A moment afterwards Lapierre was on the box, Madame Marie was inside, and Madelinette said to the coachman:

      “Drive hard—the White Calvary by the church of St. Mary Magdalene.”

      In another hour the coach drew up by the White Calvary, where a soft light burned in memory of some departed soul.

      The three alighted. Madelinette whispered to Havel, he got up on the box beside Lapierre, and the coach rattled away to a tavern, as the two women disappeared swiftly into the darkness.