above a whisper; he was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff, yet there
was something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes, which
seemed to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the sight of some
deadly hitherto unguessed peril. "Is that a threat, citoyen?" she asked
at last.

"Nay, fair lady," he said gallantly, "only an arrow shot into the air."

He paused a moment, like a cat which sees a mouse running heedlessly
by, ready to spring, yet waiting with that feline sense of enjoyment of
mischief about to be done. Then he said quietly--

"Your brother, St. Just, is in peril."

Not a muscle moved in the beautiful face before him. He could only see
it in profile, for Marguerite seemed to be watching the stage intently,
but Chauvelin was a keen observer; he noticed the sudden rigidity of the
eyes, the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost paralysed tension of
the beautiful, graceful figure.

"Lud, then," she said with affected merriment, "since 'tis one of your
imaginary plots, you'd best go back to your own seat and leave me enjoy
the music."

And with her hand she began to beat time nervously against the cushion
of the box. Selina Storace was singing the "Che faro" to an audience
that hung spellbound upon the prima donna's lips. Chauvelin did not
move from his seat; he quietly watched that tiny nervous hand, the only
indication that his shaft had indeed struck home.

"Well?" she said suddenly and irrelevantly, and with the same feigned
unconcern.

"Well, citoyenne?" he rejoined placidly.

"About my brother?"

"I have news of him for you which, I think, will interest you, but first
let me explain. . . . May I?"

The question was unnecessary. He felt, though Marguerite still held her
head steadily averted from him, that her every nerve was strained to
hear what he had to say.

"The other day, citoyenne," he said, "I asked for your help. . . .
France needed it, and I thought I could rely on you, but you gave me
your answer. . . . Since then the exigencies of my own affairs and
your own social duties have kept up apart . . . although many things have
happened. . . ."

"To the point, I pray you, citoyen," she said lightly; "the music is
entrancing, and the audience will get impatient of your talk."

"One moment, citoyenne. The day on which I had the honour of meeting
you at Dover, and less than an hour after I had your final answer, I
obtained possession of some papers, which revealed anot