win.
Sir Percy Blakeney would either write the letter in order to save
his wife, and heap dishonour on himself, or he would shrink from the
terrible ordeal at the last moment and let Chauvelin and the Committee
of Public Safety work their will with her and him.

"In that case the pillory as a spy and summary hanging for you, my
friend," concluded Chauvelin in his mind, "and for your wife... Bah,
once you are out of the way, even she will cease to matter."

He left Hebert on guard in the room. An irresistible desire seized him
to go and have a look at his discomfited enemy, and from the latter's
attitude make a shrewd guess as to what he meant to do to-night.

Sir Percy had been given a room on one of the upper floors of the old
prison. He had in no way been closely guarded, and the room itself
had been made as comfortable as may be. He had seemed quite happy and
contented when he had been conducted hither by Chauvelin, the evening
before.

"I hope you quite understand, Sir Percy, that you are my guest here
to-night," Chauvelin had said suavely, "and that you are free to come
and go, just as you please."

"Lud love you, sir," Sir Percy had replied gaily, "but I verily believe
that I am."

"It is only Lady Blakeney whom we have cause to watch until to-morrow,"
added Chauvelin with quiet significance. "Is that not so, Sir Percy?"

But Sir Percy seemed, whenever his wife's name was mentioned, to lapse
into irresistible somnolence. He yawned now with his usual affectation,
and asked at what hour gentlemen in France were wont to breakfast.

Since then Chauvelin had not seen him. He had repeatedly asked how the
English prisoner was faring, and whether he seemed to be sleeping and
eating heartily. The orderly in charge invariably reported that the
Englishman seemed well, but did not eat much. On the other hand, he
had ordered, and lavishly paid for, measure after measure of brandy and
bottle after bottle of wine.

"Hm! how strange these Englishmen are!" mused Chauvelin; "this so-called
hero is nothing but a wine-sodden brute, who seeks to nerve himself for
a trying ordeal by drowning his faculties in brandy... Perhaps after all
he doesn't care!..."

But the wish to have a look at that strangely complex creature--hero,
adventurer or mere lucky fool--was irresistible, and Chauvelin in the
latter part of the afternoon went up to the room which had been allotted
to Sir Percy Blakeney.

He never moved now without his e