l, he only
saw that inane Sir Percy Blakeney fast asleep in a corner of the sofa.

Had his astute mind guessed the secret, then? Here lay the whole awful,
horrible, amazing puzzle. In betraying a nameless stranger to his fate
in order to save her brother, had Marguerite Blakeney sent her husband
to his death?

No! no! no! a thousand times no! Surely Fate could not deal a blow like
that: Nature itself would rise in revolt: her hand, when it held that
tiny scrap of paper last night, would have surely have been struck numb
ere it committed a deed so appalling and so terrible.

"But what is it, CHERIE?" said little Suzanne, now genuinely alarmed,
for Marguerite's colour had become dull and ashen. "Are you ill,
Marguerite? What is it?"

"Nothing, nothing, child," she murmured, as in a dream. "Wait a moment
. . . let me think . . . think! . . . You said . . . the Scarlet
Pimpernel had gone today . . . ?"

"Marguerite, CHERIE, what is it? You frighten me. . . ."

"It is nothing, child, I tell you . . . nothing . . . I must be alone
a minute--and--dear one . . . I may have to curtail our time together
to-day. . . . I may have to go away--you'll understand?"

"I understand that something has happened, CHERIE, and that you want
to be alone. I won't be a hindrance to you. Don't think of me. My maid,
Lucile, has not yet gone . . . we will go back together . . . don't think
of me."

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 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 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," repli