ruthlessly
struck, if she refused to obey Chauvelin. For a moment--woman-like--she
still hoped to temporise. She held out her hand to this man, whom she
now feared and hated.

"If I promise to help you in this matter, Chauvelin," she said
pleasantly, "will you give me that letter of St. Just's?"

"If you render me useful service to-night, citoyenne," he replied with a
sarcastic smile, "I will give you that letter . . . to-morrow."

"You do not trust me?"

"I trust you absolutely, dear lady, but St. Just's life is forfeit to
his country . . . it rests with you to redeem it."

"I may be powerless to help you," she pleaded, "were I ever so willing."

"That would be terrible indeed," he said quietly, "for you . . . and for
St. Just."

Marguerite shuddered. She felt that from this man she could expect no
mercy. All-powerful, he held the beloved life in the hollow of his hand.
She knew him too well not to know that, if he failed in gaining his own
ends, he would be pitiless.

She felt cold in spite of the oppressive air of opera-house. The
heart-appealing strains of the music seemed to reach her, as from a
distant land. She drew her costly lace scarf up around her shoulders,
and sat silently watching the brilliant scene, as if in a dream.

For a moment her thoughts wandered away from the loved one who was in
danger, to that other man who also had a claim on her confidence and her
affection. She felt lonely, frightened for Armand's sake; she longed
to seek comfort and advice from someone who would know how to help and
console. Sir Percy Blakeney had loved her once; he was her husband; why
should she stand alone through this terrible ordeal? He had very little
brains, it is true, but he had plenty of muscle: surely, if she provided
the thought, and he the manly energy and pluck, together they could
outwit the astute diplomatist, and save the hostage from his vengeful
hands, without imperilling the life of the noble leader of that gallant
little band of heroes. Sir Percy knew St. Just well--he seemed attached
to him--she was sure that he could help.

Chauvelin was taking no further heed of her. He had said his cruel
"Either--or--" and left her to decide. He, in his turn now, appeared to
be absorbed in the sour-stirring melodies of ORPHEUS, and was beating
time to the music with his sharp, ferret-like head.

A discreet rap at the door roused Marguerite from her thoughts. It
was Sir Percy Blakeney, tall, sleepy, good