ed the groom, "that his orders were
to deliver this, and that your ladyship would understand from whom it
came."

Marguerite tore open the envelope. Already her instinct told her what it
contained, and her eyes only glanced at it mechanically.

It was a letter by Armand St. Just to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes--the letter
which Chauvelin's spies had stolen at "The Fisherman's Rest," and which
Chauvelin had held as a rod over her to enforce her obedience.

Now he had kept his word--he had sent her back St. Just's compromising
letter . . . for he was on the track of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Marguerite's senses reeled, her very soul seemed to be leaving her body;
she tottered, and would have fallen but for Suzanne's arm round her
waist. With superhuman effort she regained control over herself--there
was yet much to be done.

"Bring that runner here to me," she said to the servant, with much calm.
"He has not gone?"

"No, my lady."

The groom went, and Marguerite turned to Suzanne.

"And you, child, run within. Tell Lucile to get ready. I fear that I
must send you home, child. And--stay, tell one of the maids to prepare a
travelling dress and cloak for me."

Suzanne made no reply. She kissed Marguerite tenderly and obeyed without
a word; the child was overawed by the terrible, nameless misery in her
friend's face.

A minute later the groom returned, followed by the runner who had
brought the letter.

"Who gave you this packet?" asked Marguerite.

"A gentleman, my lady," replied the man, "at 'The Rose and Thistle' inn
opposite Charing Cross. He said you would understand."

"At 'The Rose and Thistle'? What was he doing?"

"He was waiting for the coach, your ladyship, which he had ordered."

"The coach?"

"Yes, my lady. A special coach he had ordered. I understood from his man
that he was posting straight to Dover."

"That's enough. You may go." Then she turned to the groom: "My coach and
the four swiftest horses in the stables, to be ready at once."

The groom and runner both went quickly off to obey. Marguerite remained
standing for a moment on the lawn quite alone. Her graceful figure
was as rigid as a statue, her eyes were fixed, her hands were tightly
clasped across her breast; her lips moved as they murmured with pathetic
heart-breaking persistence,--

"What's to be done? What's to be done? Where to find him?--Oh, God!
grant me light."

But this was not the moment for remorse and despair. She had
done--u