hopes that you had a prescription against the malady, my
little Chauvelin."

"How can I hope to succeed in that which Sir Percy Blakeney has failed
to accomplish?"

"Shall we leave Sir Percy out of the question for the present, my dear
friend? she said drily.

"Ah! my dear lady, pardon me, but that is just what we cannot very well
do," said Chauvelin, whilst once again his eyes, keen as those of a
fox on the alert, darted a quick glance at Marguerite. "I have a most
perfect prescription against the worst form of ENNUI, which I would have
been happy to submit to you, but--"

"But what?"

"There IS Sir Percy."

"What has he to do with it?"

"Quite a good deal, I am afraid. The prescription I would offer, fair
lady, is called by a very plebeian name: Work!"

"Work?"

Chauvelin looked at Marguerite long and scrutinisingly. It seemed as
if those keen, pale eyes of his were reading every one of her thoughts.
They were alone together; the evening air was quite still, and their
soft whispers were drowned in the noise which came from the coffee-room.
Still, Chauvelin took as step or two from under the porch, looked
quickly and keenly all round him, then seeing that indeed no one was
within earshot, he once more came back close to Marguerite.

"Will you render France a small service, citoyenne?" he asked, with a
sudden change of manner, which lent his thin, fox-like face a singular
earnestness.

"La, man!" she replied flippantly, "how serious you look all of a
sudden. . . . Indeed I do not know if I WOULD render France a small
service--at any rate, it depends upon the kind of service she--or
you--want."

"Have you ever heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Citoyenne St. Just?"
asked Chauvelin, abruptly.

"Heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?" she retorted with a long and merry
laugh, "Faith man! we talk of nothing else. . . . We have hats 'a la
Scarlet Pimpernel'; our horses are called 'Scarlet Pimpernel'; at the
Prince of Wales' supper party the other night we had a 'souffle a la
Scarlet Pimpernel.' . . . Lud!" she added gaily, "the other day I ordered
at my milliner's a blue dress trimmed with green, and bless me, if she
did not call that 'a la Scarlet Pimpernel.'"

Chauvelin had not moved while she prattled merrily along; he did not
even attempt to stop her when her musical voice and her childlike laugh
went echoing through the still evening air. But he remained serious and
earnest whilst she laughed, and his voice, c