ole of this letter, I also make it a
condition that you write out every word of it yourself, and sign it here
in this very room, in the presence of Lady Blakeney, of myself, of
my colleagues and of at least half a dozen other persons whom I will
select."

"It is indeed admirably thought out, Monsieur," rejoined Sir Percy,
"and what is to become of the charming epistle, may I ask, after I
have written and signed it?... Pardon my curiosity.... I take a natural
interest in the matter... and truly your ingenuity passes belief..."

"Oh! the fate of this letter will be as simple as was the writing
thereof.... A copy of it will be published in our 'Gazette de Paris'
as a bait for enterprising English journalists.... They will not be
backward in getting hold of so much interesting matter.... Can you not
see the attractive headlines in 'The London Gazette,' Sir Percy? 'The
League of the Scarlet Pimpernel unmasked! A gigantic hoax! The origin
of the Blakeney millions!'... I believe that journalism in England has
reached a high standard of excellence... and even the 'Gazette de Paris'
is greatly read in certain towns of your charming country.... His Royal
Highness the Prince of Wales, and various other influential gentlemen
in London, will, on the other hand, be granted a private view of the
original through the kind offices of certain devoted friends whom we
possess in England.... I don't think that you need have any fear, Sir
Percy, that your caligraphy will sink into oblivion. It will be our
business to see that it obtains the full measure of publicity which it
deserves..."

He paused a moment, then his manner suddenly changed: the sarcastic tone
died out of his voice, and there came back into his face that look of
hatred and cruelty which Blakeney's persiflage had always the power to
evoke.

"You may rest assured of one thing, Sir Percy," he said with a harsh
laugh, "that enough mud will be thrown at that erstwhile glorious
Scarlet Pimpernel... some of it will be bound to stick..."

"Nay, Monsieur... er... Chaubertin," quoth Blakeney lightly, "I have no
doubt that you and your colleagues are past masters in the graceful art
of mud-throwing.... But pardon me... er.... I was interrupting you....
Continue, Monsieur... continue, I pray. 'Pon my honour, the matter is
vastly diverting."

"Nay, sir, after the publication of this diverting epistle, meseems your
honour will ceased to be a marketable commodity."

"Undoubtedly,