Jutley's most
trusted men.

"You are on your way to Paris, Sir Percy?" he asked carelessly.

"Odd's life, no," replied Blakeney, with a laugh. "Only as far as
Lille--not Paris for me . . . beastly uncomfortable place Paris, just now
. . . eh, Monsieur Chaubertin . . . beg pardon . . . Chauvelin!"

"Not for an English gentleman like yourself, Sir Percy," rejoined
Chauvelin, sarcastically, "who takes no interest in the conflict that is
raging there."

"La! you see it's no business of mine, and our demmed government is all
on your side of the business. Old Pitt daren't say 'Bo' to a goose. You
are in a hurry, sir," he added, as Chauvelin once again took out his
watch; "an appointment, perhaps. . . . I pray you take no heed of me.
. . . My time's my own."

He rose from the table and dragged a chair to the hearth. Once more
Marguerite was terribly tempted to go to him, for time was getting on;
Desgas might be back at any moment with his men. Percy did not know that
and . . . oh! how horrible it all was--and how helpless she felt.

"I am in no hurry," continued Percy, pleasantly, "but, la! I don't want
to spend any more time than I can help in this God-forsaken hole! But,
begad! sir," he added, as Chauvelin had surreptitiously looked at his
watch for the third time, "that watch of yours won't go any faster for
all the looking you give it. You are expecting a friend, maybe?"

"Aye--a friend!"

"Not a lady--I trust, Monsieur l'Abbe," laughed Blakeney; "surely the
holy church does not allow? . . . eh? . . . what! But, I say, come by the
fire . . . it's getting demmed cold."

He kicked the fire with the heel of his boot, making the logs blaze in
the old hearth. He seemed in no hurry to go, and apparently was quite
unconscious of his immediate danger. He dragged another chair to the
fire, and Chauvelin, whose impatience was by now quite beyond control,
sat down beside the hearth, in such a way as to command a view of the
door. Desgas had been gone nearly a quarter of an hour. It was quite
plain to Marguerite's aching senses that as soon as he arrived,
Chauvelin would abandon all his other plans with regard to the
fugitives, and capture this impudent Scarlet Pimpernel at once.

"Hey, M. Chauvelin," the latter was saying airily, "tell me, I pray
you, is your friend pretty? Demmed smart these little French women
sometimes--what? But I protest I need not ask," he added, as he
carelessly strode back towards the supper-table