terror. Still she would not let this man see that she feared; she
laughed gaily and lightly.

"Faith! and your impudence pases belief," she said merrily.
"Robbery and violence!--in England!--in a crowded inn! Your men might

have been caught in the act!"
"What if they had? They are children of France, and have been

trained by your humble servant. Had they been caught they would have
gone to jail, or even to the gallows, without a word of protest or

indiscretion; at any rate it was well worth the risk. A crowded inn
is safer for these little operations than you think, and my men have

experience."
"Well? And those papers?" she asked carelessly.

"Unfortunately, though they have given me cognisance of
certain names. . .certain movements. . .enough, I think, to thwart

their projected COUP for the moment, it would only be for the
moment, and still leaves me in ignorance of the identity of the

Scarlet Pimpernel.
"La! my friend," she said, with the same assumed flippancy of

manner, "then you are where you were before, aren't you? and you can
let me enjoy the last strophe of the ARIA. Faith!" she added,

ostentatiously smothering an imaginary yawn, "had you not spoken about
my brother. . ."

"I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among the papers there
was a letter to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written by your brother, St.

Just."
"Well? And?"

"That letter shows him to be not only in sympathy with the
enemies of France, but actually a helper, if not a member, of the

League of the Scarlet Pimpernel."
The blow had been struck at last. All along, Marguerite had

been expecting it; she would not show fear, she was determined to seem
unconcerned, flippant even. She wished, when the shock came, to be

prepared for it, to have all her wits about her--those wits which had
been nicknamed the keenest in Europe. Even now she did not flinch.

She knew that Chauvelin had spoken the truth; the man was too earnest,
too blindlydevoted to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud

of his countrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low,
purposeless falsehoods.

That letter of Armand's--foolish, imprudent Armand--was in
Chauvelin's hands. Marguerite knew that as if she had seen the letter

with her own eyes; and Chauvelin would hold that letter for purposes
of his own, until it suited him to destroy it or to make use of it

against Armand. All that she knew, and yet she continued to laugh
more gaily, more loudly than she had done before.

"La, man!" she said, speaking over her shoulder and looking
him full and squarely in the face, "did I not say it was some

imaginary plot. . . . Armand in league with that enigmatic Scarlet
Pimpernel!. . .Armand busy helping those French aristocrats whom he

despises!. . .Faith, the tale does infinite credit to your
imagination!"

"Let me make my point clear, citoyenne," said Chauvelin, with
the same unruffled calm, "I must assure you that St. Just is

compromised beyond the slightest hope of pardon."
Inside the orchestra box all was silent for a moment or two.

Marguerite sat, straight upright, rigid and inert, trying to think,
trying to face the situation, to realise what had best be done.

In the house Storace had finished the ARIA, and was even now
bowing in her classic garb, but in approved eighteenth-century

fashion, to the enthusiasticaudience, who cheered her to the echo.
"Chauvelin," said Marguerite Blakeney at last, quietly, and

without that touch of bravado which had characterised her attitude all
along, "Chauvelin, my friend, shall we try to understand one another.

It seems that my wits have become rusty by contact with this damp
climate. Now, tell me, you are very anxious to discover the identity

of the Scarlet Pimpernel, isn't that so?"
"France's most bitter enemy, citoyenne. . .all the more

dangerous, as he works in the dark."
"All the more noble, you mean. . . . Well!--and you would now

force me to do some spying work for you in exchange for my brother
Armand's safety?--Is that it?"

"Fie! two very ugly words, fair lady," protested Chauvelin,
urbanely. "There can be no question of force, and the service which I

would ask of you, in the name of France, could never be called by the
shocking name of spying."

"At any rate, that is what it is called over here," she said
drily. "That is your intention, is it not?"

"My intention is, that you yourself win the free pardon for
Armand St. Just by doing me a small service."

"What is it?"
"Only watch for me to-night, Citoyenne St. Just," he said

eagerly. "Listen: among the papers which were found about the person
of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes there was a tiny note. See!" he added, taking

a tiny scrap of paper from his pocket-book and handing it to her.
It was the same scrap of paper which, four days ago, the two

young men had been in the act of reading, at the very moment when they
were attacked by Chauvelin's minions. Marguerite took it mechanically

and stooped to read it. There were only two lines, written in a
distorted, evidently disguised, handwriting; she read them half

aloud--
"`Remember we must not meet more often than is strictly

necessary. You have all instructions for the 2nd. If you wish to
speak to me again, I shall be at G.'s ball.'"

"What does it mean?" she asked.
"Look again, citoyenne, and you will understand."

"There is a device here in the corner, a small red
flower. . ."

"Yes."
"The Scarlet Pimpernel," she said eagerly, "and G.'s ball

means Grenville's ball. . . . He will be at my Lord Grenville's ball
to-night."

"That is how I interpret the note, citoyenne," concluded
Chauvelin, blandly. "Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,

after they were pinioned and searched by my spies, were carried by my
orders to a lonely house in the Dover Road, which I had rented for the

purpose: there they remained close prisoners until this morning. But
having found this tiny scrap of paper, my intention was that they

should be in London, in time to attend my Lord Grenville's ball. You
see, do you not? that they must have a great deal to say to their

chief. . .and thus they will have an opportunity of speaking to him
to-night, just as he directed them to do. Therefore, this morning,

those two young gallants found every bar and bolt open in that lonely
house on the Dover Road, their jailers disappeared, and two good

horses standing ready saddled and tethered in the yard. I have not
seen them yet, but I think we may safely conclude that they did not

draw rein until they reached London. Now you see how simple it all
is, citoyenne!"

"It does seem simple, doesn't it?" she said, with a final
bitter attempt at flippancy, "when you want to kill a chicken. . .you

take hold of it. . .then you wring its neck. . .it's only the chicken
who does not find it quite so simple. Now you hold a knife at my

throat, and a hostage for my obedience. . . . You find it
simple. . . . I don't."

"Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving the brother
you love from the consequences of his own folly."