ere and was safe,
and Blakeney knew the whereabouts of St. Just--that was enough for Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes, the most devoted follower, the most perfect friend the
Scarlet Pimpernel would ever know.

Ffoulkes now went to the horse, detached the nose-bag, and undid the
nooses of the hobble and of the tether.

"Will you get in now, Blakeney?" he said; "we are ready."

And in unbroken silence they both got into the cart; Blakeney sitting
on its floor beside the child, and Ffoulkes gathering the reins in his
hands.

The wheels of the cart and the slow jog-trot of the horse made scarcely
any noise in the mud of the roads, what noise they did make was
effectually drowned by the soughing of the wind in the bare branches of
the stunted acacia trees that edged the towpath along the line of the
canal.

Sir Andrew had studied the topography of this desolate neighbourhood
well during the past twenty-four hours; he knew of a detour that would
enable him to avoid the La Villette gate and the neighbourhood of the
fortifications, and yet bring him out soon on the road leading to St.
Germain.

Once he turned to ask Blakeney the time.

"It must be close on ten now," replied Sir Percy. "Push your nag along,
old man. Tony and Hastings will be waiting for us."

It was very difficult to see clearly even a metre or two ahead, but the
road was a straight one, and the old nag seemed to know it almost as
well and better than her driver. She shambled along at her own pace,
covering the ground very slowly for Ffoulkes's burning impatience. Once
or twice he had to get down and lead her over a rough piece of ground.
They passed several groups of dismal, squalid houses, in some of which
a dim light still burned, and as they skirted St. Ouen the church clock
slowly tolled the hour of midnight.

But for the greater part of the way derelict, uncultivated spaces of
terrains vagues, and a few isolated houses lay between the road and the
fortifications of the city. The darkness of the night, the late hour,
the soughing of the wind, were all in favour of the adventurers; and
a coal-cart slowly trudging along in this neighbourhood, with two
labourers sitting in it, was the least likely of any vehicle to attract
attention.

Past Clichy, they had to cross the river by the rickety wooden bridge
that was unsafe even in broad daylight. They were not far from their
destination now. Half a dozen kilometres further on they would be
leaving Courbevoie on t