The few words which Marguerite Blakeney had managed to read on the half-scorched piece of paper, seemed literally to be the words of Fate. "Start myself to-morrow…" This she had read quite distinctly; then came a blur caused by the smoke of the candle, which obliterated the next few words; but, right at the bottom, there was another sentence, which was now standing clearly and distinctly, like letters of fire, before her mental vision. "If you wish to speak to me again, I shall be in the supper-room at one o'clock precisely." The whole was signed with the hastily-scrawled little device -- a tiny star-shaped flower, which had become so familiar to her.

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