The Argosy — page 74: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

64 Margaret's Grave. “Margaret Viola! Why that was Margaret Grey !—the Margaret who had lived with them in America. Her name was Viola as well as Margaret. Viola Margaret, as Leslie had always believed, and those who placed it on this tomb had put the wrong name first. Was Margaret dead?—she did uot know it. She had not heard of Margaret since that long-ago time when she had written to decline to come to their wedding. What did it all mean? Margaret was certainly alive then: and—why—then—how could she—she, herself, Leslie—how could she be his wife? ” Sick and faint, with a deathly moisture clinging to her brow, poor Leslie Ensor strove to think it out, to bring light out of chaos. The more she thought, the worse it looked: for she could see but one solution. Margaret Grey must have been his wife, and Margaret must have come to this remote French village during the past twelvemonth, and died. What was she to do? Oh, what ought her course to be ? Smarting, stung, outraged in every sense and feeling, Leslie Ensor quitted the spot with a great cry, and went swiftly back to the Pomme d’Or. She was very nearly mad; and perhaps little more responsible for her actions in that dreadful hour than a true mad- woman would have been. “Monsieur votre Mari has been in after you, madame,” was the salutation of the hostess; who had finished her peas and now sat picking the salad, “He is gone back to the town to look for you.” “C’est bien,” responded Leslie: and tore up the stairs like a mad Pressing a change of linen into a black hand-bag, flinging a water- proof cloak over her dainty morning dress, and possessing herself of her larger purse—which had a good bit of money in it—Leslie Ensor quitted the Pomme d’Or. Madame had gone to the pump, there to wash the salad, and did not see her depart. Leslie knew there was a railway station about half a league off, for the carriage had passed it the previous day: and away she went towards it, panting and sighing, with fleet feet that hardly seemed to touch the ground. “For what place does Madame wish to take her ticket ?” questioned the clerk, who was a female, and looked and spoke like a lady, per- ceiving Leslie waiting there when she opened the pigeon holes. “For—Paris,” replied Leslie in her dilemma: for she was entirely ignorant of the name of any nearer town. “ Paris !” repeated the lady. “Then Madame must wait two hours and forty minutes. No train goes in that direction before then.” That would never do. “ Where does the next train go to, and when will it be in?” she asked aloud. “Tt goes to many places. The next train will be (here jin (ten comicbooks.com