gogue who desired to purchase a few votes by holding out
visions of pleasant doings to come; and during the first few days the
mob of Paris was content to enjoy the delights of expectation.

But now seventeen days had gone by and still the Englishman was not
being brought to trial. The pleasure-loving public was waxing impatient,
and earlier this evening, when citizen Heron had shown himself in the
stalls of the national theatre, he was greeted by a crowded audience
with decided expressions of disapproval and open mutterings of:

"What of the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

It almost looked as if he would have to bring that accursed Englishman
to the guillotine without having wrested from him the secret which he
would have given a fortune to possess. Chauvelin, who had also been
present at the theatre, had heard the expressions of discontent; hence
his visit to his colleague at this late hour of the night.

"Shall I try?" he had queried with some impatience, and a deep sigh of
satisfaction escaped his thin lips when the chief agent, wearied and
discouraged, had reluctantly agreed.

"Let the men make as much noise as they like," he added with an
enigmatical smile. "The Englishman and I will want an accompaniment to
our pleasant conversation."

Heron growled a surly assent, and without another word Chauvelin turned
towards the inner cell. As he stepped in he allowed the iron bar to fall
into its socket behind him. Then he went farther into the room until the
distant recess was fully revealed to him. His tread had been furtive and
almost noiseless. Now he paused, for he had caught sight the prisoner.
For a moment he stood quite still, with hands clasped behind his back in
his wonted attitude--still save for a strange, involuntary twitching
of his mouth, and the nervous clasping and interlocking of his fingers
behind his back. He was savouring to its utmost fulsomeness the
supremest joy which animal man can ever know--the joy of looking on a
fallen enemy.

Blakeney sat at the table with one arm resting on it, the emaciated
hand tightly clutched, the body leaning forward, the eyes looking into
nothingness.

For the moment he was unconscious of Chauvelin's presence, and the
latter could gaze on him to the full content of his heart.

Indeed, to all outward appearances there sat a man whom privations of
every sort and kind, the want of fresh air, of proper food, above all,
of rest, had worn down physically to a shadow. There was