terrible burden of responsibility, of having to choose between two
such cruel alternatives.

But the minutes ticked on with that dull monotony which they
invariably seem to assume when our very nerves ache with their

incessant ticking.
After supper, dancing was resumed. His Royal Highness had

left, and there was general talk of departing among the older guests;
the young were indefatigable and had started on a new gavotte, which

would fill the next quarter of an hour.
Marguerite did not feel equal to another dance; there is a

limit to the most enduring of self-control. Escorted by a Cabinet
Minister, she had once more found her way to the tiny boudoir, still

the most deserted among all the rooms. She knew that Chauvelin must
be lying in wait for her somewhere, ready to seize the first possible

opportunity for a TETE-A-TETE. His eyes had met hers for a moment
after the `fore-supper minuet, and she knew that the keen diplomat,

with those searching pale eyes of his, had divined that her work was
accomplished.

Fate had willed it so. Marguerite, torn by the most terrible
conflict heart of woman can ever know, had resigned herself to its

decrees. But Armand must be saved at any cost; he, first of all, for
he was her brother, had been mother, father, friend to her ever since

she, a tiny babe, had lost both her parents. To think of Armand dying
a traitor's death on the guillotine was too horrible even to dwell

upon--impossible in fact. That could never be, never. . . . As for
the stranger, the hero. . .well! there, let Fate decide. Marguerite

would redeem her brother's life at the hands of the relentless enemy,
then let that cunning Scarlet Pimpernel extricate himself after that.

Perhaps--vaguely--Marguerite hoped that the daring plotter,
who for so many months had baffled an army of spies, would still

manage to evade Chauvelin and remain immune to the end.
She thought of all this, as she sat listening to the witty

discourse of the Cabinet Minister, who, no doubt, felt that he had
found in Lady Blakeney a most perfect listener. Suddenly she saw the

keen, fox-like face of Chauvelin peeping through the curtained
doorway.

"Lord Fancourt," she said to the Minister, "will you do me a
service?"

"I am entirely at your ladyship's service," he replied
gallantly.

"Will you see if my husband is still in the card-room? And if
he is, will you tell him that I am very tired, and would be glad to go

home soon."
The commands of a beautiful woman are binding on all mankind,

even on Cabinet Ministers. Lord Fancourt prepared to obey instantly.
"I do not like to leave your ladyship alone," he said.

"Never fear. I shall be quite safe here--and, I think,
undisturbed. . .but I am really tired. You know Sir Percy will drive

back to Richmond. It is a long way, and we shall not--an we do not
hurry--get home before daybreak."

Lord Fancourt had perforce to go.
The moment he had disappeared, Chauvelin slipped into the

room, and the next instant stood calm and impassive by her side.
"You have news for me?" he said.

An icy mantle seemed to have suddenly settled round
Marguerite's shoulders; though her cheeks glowed with fire, she felt

chilled and numbed. Oh, Armand! will you ever know the terrible
sacrifice of pride, of dignity, of womanliness a devoted sister is

making for your sake?
"Nothing of importance," she said, staring mechanically" target="_blank" title="ad.机械地；无意识地">mechanically before

her, "but it might prove a clue. I contrived--no matter how--to
detect Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in the very act of burning a paper at one

of these candles, in this very room. That paper I succeeded in
holding between my fingers for the space of two minutes, and to cast

my eyes on it for that of ten seconds."
"Time enough to learn its contents?" asked Chauvelin, quietly.

She nodded. Then continued in the same even, mechanical tone
of voice--

"In the corner of the paper there was the usual rough device
of a small star-shaped flower. Above it I read two lines, everything

else was scorched and blackened by the flame."
"And what were the two lines?"

Her throat seemed suddenly to have contracted. For an instant
she felt that she could not speak the words, which might send a brave

man to his death.
"It is lucky that the whole paper was not burned," added

Chauvelin, with dry sarcasm, "for it might have fared ill with Armand
St. Just. What were the two lines citoyenne?"

"One was, `I start myself to-morrow,'" she said quietly, "the
other--'If you wish to speak to me, I shall be in the supper-room at

one o'clock precisely.'"
Chauvelin looked up at the clock just above the mantelpiece.

"Then I have plenty of time," he said placidly.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.

She was pale as a statue, her hands were icy cold, her head
and heart throbbed with the awful strain upon her nerves. Oh, this

was cruel! cruel! What had she done to have deserved all this? Her
choice was made: had she done a vile action or one that was sublime?

The recording angel, who writes in the book of gold, alone could give
an answer.

"What are you going to do?" she repeatedmechanically" target="_blank" title="ad.机械地；无意识地">mechanically.
"Oh, nothing for the present. After that it will depend."

"On what?"
"On whom I shall see in the supper-room at one o'clock

precisely."
"You will see the Scarlet Pimpernel, of course. But you do

not know him."
"No. But I shall presently."

"Sir Andrew will have warned him."
"I think not. When you parted from him after the minuet he

stood and watched you, for a moment or two, with a look which gave me
to understand that something had happened between you. It was only

natural, was it not? that I should make a shrewd guess as to the
nature of that `something.' I thereupon engaged the young man in a

long and animated conversation--we discussed Herr Gluck's singular
success in London--until a lady claimed his arm for supper."

"Since then?"
"I did not lose sight of him through supper. When we all came

upstairs again, Lady Portarles buttonholed him and started on the
subject of pretty Mlle. Suzanne de Tournay. I knew he would not move

until Lady Portarles had exhausted on the subject, which will not be
for another quarter of an hour at least, and it is five minutes to one

now."
He was preparing to go, and went up to the doorway where,

drawing aside the curtain, he stood for a moment pointing out to
Marguerite the distant figure of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in close

conversation with Lady Portarles.
"I think," he said, with a triumphant smile, "that I may

safely expect to find the person I seek in the dining-room, fair
lady."

"There may be more than one."
"Whoever is there, as the clock strikes one, will be shadowed

by one of my men; of these, one, or perhaps two, or even three, will
leave for France to-morrow. ONE of these will be the `Scarlet

Pimpernel.'"