"A tout a l'heure, mademoiselle."

At the top of the bank the road ran out into the fog, which was thicker
on this side. She walked along it and was lost to Margot's incurious
eyes. Here it was utterly deserted: since the bridge had been blown up
the road had become disused and only the few who passed over by
Margot's boat ever found their way across these fields. She strayed
along by the road's edge and could distinguish the blanched form of
a tree.

Strange that the fog should reach so much further inland on this side of
the river. Perhaps the ground was lower. Standing still her ear caught a
rich, high, throaty sound, a choking complaint which travelled in the air.

"It is the car," she thought. Far away a patch of light floated in the
sky, like an uprooted searchlight.

"That is the fog, bending the headlights upward."

She stood in the centre of the road and listened to the sound as it drew
nearer and nearer, till suddenly the headlights came down out of the sky
and pierced her--she stood washed in light, and the car stopped.

Beside the driver of the car was, not Julien, but a man with a red,
wooden face like a Hindoo god made out of mahogany. Saluting, he said:
"We are sent to fetch you, mademoiselle." He held the door of the closed
car open for her, she smiled, nodded, climbed in and sank upon the seat.

"When you get to the lights of the houses, mademoiselle, will you stoop