s unexpected interview to account.

Marguerite up in the loft had not moved. She had made a solemn promise
to Sir Andrew not to speak to her husband before strangers, and she
had sufficient self-control not to throw herself unreasoningly and
impulsively across his plans. To sit still and watch these two men
together was a terrible trial of fortitude. Marguerite had heard
Chauvelin give the orders for the patrolling of all the roads. She
knew that if Percy now left the "Chat Gris"--in whatever direction he
happened to go--he could not go far without being sighted by some of
Captain Jutley's men on patrol. On the other hand, if he stayed, then
Desgas would have time to come back with the dozen men Chauvelin had
specially ordered.

The trap was closing in, and Marguerite could do nothing but watch and
wonder. The two men looked such a strange contrast, and of the two it
was Chauvelin who exhibited a slight touch of fear. Marguerite knew him
well enough to guess what was passing in his mind. He had no fear for
his own person, although he certainly was alone in a lonely inn with a
man who was powerfully built, and who was daring and reckless beyond
the bounds of probability. She knew that Chauvelin would willingly have
braved perilous encounters for the sake of the cause he had at heart,
but what he did fear was that this impudent Englishman would, by
knocking him down, double his own chances of escape; his underlings
might not succeed so well in capturing the Scarlet Pimpernel, when not
directed by the cunning hand and the shrewd brain, which had deadly hate
for an incentive.

Evidently, however, the representative of the French Government had
nothing to fear for the moment, at the hands of his powerful adversary.
Blakeney, with his most inane laugh and pleasant good-nature, was
solemnly patting him on the back.

"I am so demmed sorry . . ." he was saying cheerfully, "so very sorry
. . . I seem to have upset you . . . eating soup, too . . . nasty, awkward
thing, soup . . . er . . . Begad!--a friend of mine died once . . .
er . . . choked . . . just like you . . . with a spoonful of soup."

And he smiled shyly, good-humouredly, down at Chauvelin.

"Odd's life!" he continued, as soon as the latter had somewhat recovered
himself, "beastly hole this . . . ain't it now? La! you don't mind?" he
added, apologetically, as he sat down on a chair close to the table and
drew the soup tureen towards him. "That fool Brogard seems