She threw her arms impulsively round Marguerite. Child as she

was, she felt the poignancy of her friend's grief, and with the
infinite tact of her girlish tenderness, she did not try to pry into

it, but was ready to efface herself.
She kissed Marguerite again and again, then walked sadly back

across the lawn. Marguerite did not move, she remained there,
thinking. . .wondering what was to be done.

Just as little Suzanne was about to mount the terrace steps, a
groom came running round the house towards his mistress. He carried a

sealed letter in his hand. Suzanne instinctively" target="_blank" title="ad.本能地">instinctively turned back; her
heart told her that here perhaps was further ill news for her friend,

and she felt that poor Margot was not in a fit state to bear any more.
The groom stood respectfully" target="_blank" title="ad.恭敬地">respectfully beside his mistress, then he

handed her the sealed letter.
"What is that?" asked Marguerite.

"Just come by runner, my lady."
Marguerite took the letter mechanically, and turned it over in

her trembling fingers.
"Who sent it?" she said.

"The runner said, my lady," replied the groom, "that his
orders were to deliver this, and that your ladyship would understand

from whom it came."
Marguerite tore open the envelope. Already her instinct told

her what it contained, and her eyes only glanced at it mechanically.
It was a letter by Armand St. Just to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes--the

letter which Chauvelin's spies had stolen at "The Fisherman's Rest,"
and which Chauvelin had held as a rod over her to enforce her

obedience.
Now he had kept his word--he had sent her back St. Just's

compromising letter. . .for he was on the track of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Marguerite's senses reeled, her very soul seemed to be leaving

her body; she tottered, and would have fallen but for Suzanne's arm
round her waist. With superhuman effort she regained control over

herself--there was yet much to be done.
"Bring that runner here to me," she said to the servant, with

much calm. "He has not gone?"
"No, my lady."

The groom went, and Marguerite turned to Suzanne.
"And you, child, run within. Tell Lucile to get ready. I

fear that I must send you home, child. And--stay, tell one of the
maids to prepare a travelling dress and cloak for me."

Suzanne made no reply. She kissed Marguerite tenderly and
obeyed without a word; the child was overawed by the terrible,

nameless misery in her friend's face.
A minute later the groom returned, followed by the runner who

had brought the letter.
"Who gave you this packet?" asked Marguerite.

"A gentleman, my lady," replied the man, "at `The Rose and
Thistle' inn opposite Charing Cross. He said you would understand."

"At `The Rose and Thistle'? What was he doing?"
"He was waiting for the coach, you ladyship, which he had ordered."

"The coach?"
"Yes, my lady. A special coach he had ordered. I understood

from his man that he was posting straight to Dover."
"That's enough. You may go." Then she turned to the groom:

"My coach and the four swiftest horses in the stables, to be ready at
once."

The groom and runner both went quickly off to obey.
Marguerite remained standing for a moment on the lawn quite alone.

Her graceful figure was as rigid as a statue, her eyes were fixed, her
hands were tightly clasped across her breast; her lips moved as they

murmured with pathetic heart-breaking persistence,--
"What's to be done? What's to be done? Where to find

him?--Oh, God! grant me light."
But this was not the moment for remorse and despair. She had

done--unwittingly--an awful and terrible thing--the very worst crime,
in her eyes, that woman ever committed--she saw it in all its horror.

Her very blindness in not having guessed her husband's secret seemed
now to her another deadly sin. She ought to have known! she ought

to have known!
How could she imagine that a man who could love with so much

intensity as Percy Blakeney had loved her from the first--how could
such a man be the brainless idiot he chose to appear? She, at least,

ought to have known that he was wearing a mask, and having found that
out, she should have torn it from his face, whenever they were alone

together.
Her love for him had been paltry and weak, easily crushed by

her own pride; and she, too, had worn a mask in assuming a contempt
for him, whilst, as a matter of fact, she completely misunderstood

him.
But there was no time now to go over the past. By her own

blindness she had sinned; now she must repay, not by empty remorse,
but by prompt and useful action.

Percy had started for Calais, utterly unconscious of the fact
that his most relentless enemy was on his heels. He had set sail

early that morning from London Bridge. Provided he had a favourable
wind, he would no doubt be in France within twenty-four hours; no

doubt he had reckoned on the wind and chosen this route.
Chauvelin, on the other hand, would post to Dover, charter a

vessel there, and undoubtedly reach Calais much about the same time.
Once in Calais, Percy would meet all those who were eagerlywaiting

for the noble and brave Scarlet Pimpernel, who had come to rescue them
from horrible and unmerited death. With Chauvelin's eyes now fixed

upon his every movement, Percy would thus not only be endangering his
own life, but that of Suzanne's father, the old Comte de Tournay, and

of those other fugitives who were waiting for him and trusting in him.
There was also Armand, who had gone to meet de Tournay, secure in the

knowledge that the Scarlet Pimpernel was watching over his safety.
All these lives and that of her husband, lay in Marguerite's hands;

these she must save, if human pluck and ingenuity were equal to the task.
Unfortunately, she could not do all this quite alone. Once in

Calais she would not know where to find her husband, whilst Chauvelin,
in stealing the papers at Dover, had obtained the whole itinerary.

Above every thing, she wished to warn Percy.
She knew enough about him by now to understand that he would

never abandon those who trusted in him, that he would not turn his
back from danger, and leave the Comte de Tournay to fall into the

bloodthirsty hands that knew of no mercy. But if he were warned, he
might form new plans, be more wary, more prudent. Unconsciously, he

might fall into a cunning trap, but--once warned--he might yet succeed.
And if he failed--if indeed Fate, and Chauvelin, with all the

resources at his command, proved too strong for the daring plotter
after all--then at least she would be there by his side, to comfort,

love and cherish, to cheat death perhaps at the last by making it seem
sweet, if they died both together, locked in each other's arms, with

the supreme happiness of knowing that passion had responded to
passion, and that all misunderstandings were at an end.

Her whole body stiffened as with a great and firm resolution.
This she meant to do, if God gave her wits and strength. Her eyes

lost their fixed look; they glowed with inward fire at the thought of
meeting him again so soon, in the very midst of most deadly perils;

they sparkled with the joy of sharing these dangers with him--of
helping him perhaps--of being with him at the last--if she failed.

The childlike sweet face had become hard and set, the curved
mouth was closed tightly over her clenched teeth. She meant to do or

die, with him and for his sake. A frown, which spoke of an iron will
and unbending resolution, appeared between the two straight brows;

already her plans were formed. She would go and find Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes first; he was Percy's best friend, and Marguerite remembered,

with a thrill, with what blind enthusiasm the young man always spoke
of his mysterious leader.