"Yes!" he said, still musing, "all right!"
"No hitch?"

"None."
Lord Antony laughed pleasantly as he poured himself out

another glass of wine.
"I need not ask, I suppose, whether you found the journey

pleasant this time?"
"No, friend, you need not ask," replied Sir Andrew, gaily.

"It was all right."
"Then here's to her very good health," said jovial Lord Tony.

"She's a bonnie lass, though she IS a French one. And here's to
your courtship--may it flourish and prosper exceedingly."

He drained his glass to the last drop, then joined his friend
beside the hearth.

"Well! you'll be doing the journey next, Tony, I expect,"
said Sir Andrew, rousing himself from his meditations, "you and

Hastings, certainly; and I hope you may have as pleasant a task as I
had, and as charming a travelling companion. You have no idea,

Tony. . . ."
"No! I haven't," interrupted his friend pleasantly, "but I'll

take your word for it. And now," he added, whilst a sudden
earnestness crept over his jovial young face, "how about business?"

The two young men drew their chairs closer together, and
instinctively, though they were alone, their voices sank to a whisper.

"I saw the Scarlet Pimpernel alone, for a few moments in
Calais," said Sir Andrew, "a day or two ago. He crossed over to

England two days before we did. He had escorted the party all the way
from Paris, dressed--you'll never credit it!--as an old market woman,

and driving--until they were safely out of the city--the covered cart,
under which the Comtesse de Tournay, Mlle. Suzanne, and the Vicomte

lay concealed among the turnips and cabbages. They, themselves, of
course, never suspected who their driver was. He drove them right

through a line of soldiery and a yelling mob, who were screaming, `A
bas les aristos!' But the market cart got through along with some

others, and the Scarlet Pimpernel, in shawl, petticoat and hood,
yelled `A bas les aristos!' louder than anybody. Faith!" added the

young man, as his eyes glowed with enthusiasm for the beloved leader,
"that man's a marvel! His cheek is preposterous, I vow!--and that's

what carries him through."
Lord Antony, whose vocabulary was more limited than that of

his friend, could only find an oath or two with which to show his
admiration for his leader.

"He wants you and Hastings to meet him at Calais," said Sir
Andrew, more quietly, "on the 2nd of next month. Let me see! that

will be next Wednesday."
"Yes."

"It is, of course, the case of the Comte de Tournay, this
time; a dangerous task, for the Comte, whose escape from his chateau,

after he had been declared a `suspect' by the Committee of Public
Safety, was a masterpiece of the Scarlet Pimpernel's ingenuity, is now

under sentence of death. It will be rare sport to get HIM out of
France, and you will have a narrow escape, if you get through at all.

St. Just has actually gone to meet him--of course, no one suspects St.
Just as yet; but after that. . .to get them both out of the country!

I'faith, `twill be a tough job, and tax even the ingenuity of our
chief. I hope I may yet have orders to be of the party."

"Have you any special instructions for me?"
"Yes! rather more precise ones than usual. It appears that

the Republican Government have sent an accredited agent over to
England, a man named Chauvelin, who is said to be terribly bitter

against our league, and determined to discover the identity of our
leader, so that he may have him kidnapped, the next time he attempts

to set foot in France. This Chauvelin has brought a whole army of
spies with him, and until the chief has sampled the lot, he thinks we

should meet as seldom as possible on the business of the league, and
on no account should talk to each other in public places for a time.

When he wants to speak to us, he will contrive to let us know."
The two young men were both bending over the fire for the

blaze had died down, and only a red glow from the dying embers cast a
lurid light on a narrow semicircle in front of the hearth. The rest

of the room lay buried in complete gloom; Sir Andrew had taken a
pocket-book from his pocket, and drawn therefrom a paper, which he

unfolded, and together they tried to read it by the dim red firelight.
So intent were they upon this, so wrapt up in the cause, the business

they had so much at heart, so precious was this document which came
from the very hand of their adored leader, that they had eyes and ears

only for that. They lost count of the sounds around them, of the
dropping of the crisp ash from the grate, of the monotonous ticking of

the clock, of the soft, almost imperceptible rustle of something on
the floor close beside them. A figure had emerged from under one of

the benches; with snake-like, noiseless movements it crept closer and
closer to the two young men, not breathing, only gliding along the

floor, in the inky blackness of the room.
"You are to read these instructions and commit them to

memory," said Sir Andrew, "then destroy them."
He was about to replace the letter-case into his pocket, when

a tiny slip of paper fluttered from it and fell on to the floor. Lord
Antony stooped and picked it up.

"What's that?" he asked.
"I don't know," replied Sir Andrew.

"It dropped out of your pocket just now. It certainly does
not seem to be with the other paper."

"Strange!--I wonder when it got there? It is from the chief,"
he added, glancing at the paper.

Both stooped to try and decipher this last tiny scrap of paper
on which a few words had been hastily scrawled, when suddenly a slight

noise atrracted their attention, which seemed to come from the passage
beyond.

"What's that?" said both instinctively. Lord Antony crossed
the room towards the door, which he threw open quickly and suddenly;

at that very moment he received a stunning blow between the eyes,
which threw him back violently into the room. Simultaneously the

crouching, snake-like figure in the gloom had jumped up and hurled
itself from behind upon the unsuspecting Sir Andrew, felling him to

the ground.
All this occurred within the short space of two or three

seconds, and before either Lord Antony or Sir Andrew had time or
chance to utter a cry or to make the faintest struggle. They were

each seized by two men, a muffler was quickly tied round the mouth of
each, and they were pinioned to one another back to back, their arms,

hands, and legs securely fastened.
One man had in the meanwhile quietly shut the door; he wore a

mask and now stood motionless while the others completed their work.
"All safe, citoyen!" said one of the men, as he took a final

survey of the bonds which secured the two young men.
"Good!" replied the man at the door; "now search their pockets

and give me all the papers you find."
This was promptly and quietly done. The masked man having

taken possession of all the papers, listened for a moment or two if
there were any sound within "The Fisherman's Rest." Evidently

satisfied that this dastardly outrage had remained unheard, he once
more opened the door and pointed peremptorily down the passage. The

four men lifted Sir Andrew and Lord Antony from the ground, and as
quietly, as noiselessly as they had come, they bore the two pinioned

young gallants out of the inn and along the Dover Road into the gloom
beyond.

In the coffee-room the masked leader of this daring attempt
was quickly glancing through the stolen papers.

"Not a bad day's work on the whole," he muttered, as he
quietly took off his mask, and his pale, fox-like eyes glittered in

the red glow of the fire. "Not a bad day's work."
He opened one or two letters from Sir Andrew Ffoulkes'

pocket-book, noted the tiny scrap of paper which the two young men had
only just had time to read; but one letter specially, signed Armand