ard symptoms were still there certainly; the face by
the light of the lamp still looked livid, the lips bloodless, the hands
emaciated and waxen, but the eyes!--they were still hollow, with heavy
lids still purple, but in their depths there was a curious, mysterious
light, a look that seemed to see something that was hidden to natural
sight.

Citizen Chauvelin thought that Heron, too, must be conscious of
this, but the Committee's agent was sprawling on a chair, sucking a
short-stemmed pipe, and gazing with entire animal satisfaction on the
prisoner.

"The most perfect piece of work we have ever accomplished, you and I,
citizen Chauvelin," he said complacently.

"You think that everything is quite satisfactory?" asked the other with
anxious stress on his words.

"Everything, of course. Now you see to the letter. I will give final
orders for to-morrow, but I shall sleep in the guard-room."

"And I on that inviting bed," interposed the prisoner lightly, as he
rose to his feet. "Your servant, citizens!"

He bowed his head slightly, and stood by the table whilst the two men
prepared to go. Chauvelin took a final long look at the man whom he
firmly believed he had at last brought down to abject disgrace.

Blakeney was standing erect, watching the two retreating figures--one
slender hand was on the table. Chauvelin saw that it was leaning rather
heavily, as if for support, and that even whilst a final mocking
laugh sped him and his colleague on their way, the tall figure of the
conquered lion swayed like a stalwart oak that is forced to bend to the
mighty fury of an all-compelling wind.

With a sigh of content Chauvelin took his colleague by the arm, and
together the two men walked out of the cell.

CHAPTER XXXIX. KILL HIM!

Two hours after midnight Armand St. Just was wakened from sleep by a
peremptory pull at his hell. In these days in Paris but one meaning
could as a rule be attached to such a summons at this hour of the night,
and Armand, though possessed of an unconditional certificate of
safety, sat up in bed, quite convinced that for some reason which would
presently be explained to him he had once more been placed on the list
of the "suspect," and that his trial and condemnation on a trumped-up
charge would follow in due course.

Truth to tell, he felt no fear at the prospect, and only a very little
sorrow. The sorrow was not for himself; he regretted neither life nor
happiness. Life had become hatef