her of those
subtle schemes for the escape of a batch of French aristocrats--that
traitor de Tournay amongst others--all organized by that arch-meddler,
the Scarlet Pimpernel. Some of the threads, too, of this mysterious
organization have come into my hands, but not all, and I want you--nay!
you MUST help me to gather them together."

Marguerite seemed to have listened to him with marked impatience; she
now shrugged her shoulders and said gaily--

"Bah! man. Have I not already told you that I care nought about your
schemes or about the Scarlet Pimpernel. And had you not spoken about my
brother . . ."

"A little patience, I entreat, citoyenne," he continued imperturbably.
"Two gentlemen, Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes were at
'The Fisherman's Rest' at Dover that same night."

"I know. I saw them there."

"They were already known to my spies as members of that accursed league.
It was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes who escorted the Comtesse de Tournay and her
children across the Channel. When the two young men were alone, my spies
forced their way into the coffee-room of the inn, gagged and pinioned
the two gallants, seized their papers, and brought them to me."

In a moment she had guessed the danger. Papers? . . . Had Armand been
imprudent? . . . The very thought struck her with nameless 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
smot