ompany in general, just as if Master
Jezzard had been disputing the fact. "Why won't he let anyone see who he
is? And those who know him won't tell. Now I have it for a fact from
my lady's own maid Lucy, that the young lady as is stopping at Lady
Blakeney's house has actually spoken to the man. She came over from
France, come a fortnight to-morrow; she and the gentleman they call
Mossoo Deroulede. They both saw the Scarlet Pimpernel and spoke to him.
He brought them over from France. They why won't they say?"

"Say what?" commented Johnny Cullen, the apprentice.

"Who this mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel is."

"Perhaps he isn't," said old Clutterbuck, who was clerk of the vestry at
the church of St. John's the Evangelist.

"Yes!" he added sententiously, for he was fond of his own sayings and
usually liked to repeat them before he had quite done with them, "that's
it, you may be sure. Perhaps he isn't."

"What do you mean, Master Clutterbuck?" asked Ursula Quekett, for she
knew the old man liked to explain his wise saws, and as she wanted to
marry his son, she indulged him whenever she could. "What do you mean?
He isn't what?"

"He isn't. That's all," explained Clutterbuck with vague solemnity.

Then seeing that he had gained the attention of the little party round
him, he condescended to come to more logical phraseology.

"I mean, that perhaps we must not ask, 'who IS this mysterious Scarlet
Pimpernel?' but 'who WAS that poor and unfortunate gentleman?'"

"Then you think..." suggested Mistress Polly, who felt unaccountably
low-spirited at this oratorical pronouncement.

"I have it for a fact," said Mr. Clutterbuck solemnly, "that he whom
they call the Scarlet Pimpernel no longer exists now: that he was
collared by the Frenchies, as far back as last fall, and in the language
of the poets, has never been heard of no more."

Mr. Clutterbuck was very fond of quoting from the works of certain
writers whose names he never mentioned, but who went by the poetical
generality of "the poets." Whenever he made use of phrases which he was
supposed to derive from these great and unnamed authors, he solemnly
and mechanically raised his hat, as a tribute of respect to these giant
minds.

"You think that The Scarlet Pimpernel is dead, Mr. Clutterbuck? That
those horrible Frenchies murdered him? Surely you don't mean that?"
sighed Mistress Polly ruefully.

Mr. Clutterbuck put his hand up to his hat, preparatory no doubt to
m