e the man she loved from bondage.

This thought pleased her and gave her hope. She even urged Armand now to
go.

"When may I see you to-morrow?" he asked.

"But it will be so dangerous to meet," she argued.

"I must see you. I could not live through the day without seeing you."

"The theatre is the safest place."

"I could not wait till the evening. May I not come here?"

"No, no. Heron's spies may be about."

"Where then?"

She thought it over for a moment.

"At the stage-door of the theatre at one o'clock," she said at last. "We
shall have finished rehearsal. Slip into the guichet of the concierge.
I will tell him to admit you, and send my dresser to meet you there; she
will bring you along to my room, where we shall be undisturbed for at
least half an hour."

He had perforce to be content with that, though he would so much rather
have seen her here again, where the faded tapestries and soft-toned
hangings made such a perfect background for her delicate charm. He had
every intention of confiding in Blakeney, and of asking his help for
getting Jeanne out of Paris as quickly as may be.

Thus this perfect hour was past; the most pure, the fullest of joy that
these two young people were ever destined to know. Perhaps they felt
within themselves the consciousness that their great love would rise
anon to yet greater, fuller perfection when Fate had crowned it with
his halo of sorrow. Perhaps, too, it was that consciousness that gave to
their kisses now the solemnity of a last farewell.

CHAPTER XI. THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

Armand never could say definitely afterwards whither he went when he
left the Square du Roule that evening. No doubt he wandered about the
streets for some time in an absent, mechanical way, paying no heed to
the passers-by, none to the direction in which he was going.

His mind was full of Jeanne, her beauty, her courage, her attitude in
face of the hideous bloodhound who had come to pollute that charming
old-world boudoir by his loathsome presence. He recalled every word she
uttered, every gesture she made.

He was a man in love for the first time--wholly, irremediably in love.

I suppose that it was the pangs of hunger that first recalled him
to himself. It was close on eight o'clock now, and he had fed on his
imaginings--first on anticipation, then on realisation, and lastly on
memory--during the best part of the day. Now he awoke from his day-dream
to find himself