ir Percy," said Chauvelin blandly; "that is exactly my
mission."

"How will you set to work, Monsieur Chambertin?"

"Quite easily, if you, Sir Percy, will yield to the persuasion of my
friend citizen Heron."

"Ah!"

"Why, yes! He is anxious to know where little Capet is. A reasonable
whim, you will own, considering that the disappearance of the child is
causing him grave anxiety."

"And you, Monsieur Chambertin?" queried Sir Percy with that suspicion of
insolence in his manner which had the power to irritate his enemy even
now. "And yourself, sir; what are your wishes in the matter?"

"Mine, Sir Percy?" retorted Chauvelin. "Mine? Why, to tell you the
truth, the fate of little Capet interests me but little. Let him rot in
Austria or in our prisons, I care not which. He'll never trouble France
overmuch, I imagine. The teachings of old Simon will not tend to make a
leader or a king out of the puny brat whom you chose to drag out of our
keeping. My wishes, sir, are the annihilation of your accursed League,
and the lasting disgrace, if not the death, of its chief."

He had spoken more hotly than he had intended, but all the pent-up
rage of the past eighteen months, the recollections of Calais and of
Boulogne, had all surged up again in his mind, because despite the
closeness of these prison walls, despite the grim shadow of starvation
and of death that beckoned so close at hand, he still encountered a pair
of mocking eyes, fixed with relentless insolence upon him.

Whilst he spoke Blakeney had once more leaned forward, resting his
elbows upon the table. Now he drew nearer to him the wooden platter
on which reposed that very uninviting piece of dry bread. With solemn
intentness he proceeded to break the bread into pieces; then he offered
the platter to Chauvelin.

"I am sorry," he said pleasantly, "that I cannot you more dainty fare,
sir, but this is all that your friends have supplied me with to-day."

He crumbled some of the dry bread in his slender fingers, then started
munching the crumbs with apparent relish. He poured out some water into
the mug and drank it. Then he said with a light laugh:

"Even the vinegar which that ruffian Brogard served us at Calais was
preferable to this, do you not imagine so, my good Monsieur Chambertin?"

Chauvelin made no reply. Like a feline creature on the prowl, he was
watching the prey that had so nearly succumbed to his talons. Blakeney's
face now was positively ghastly. T