g, to whom she had sworn faith and loyalty.

"La! man," she said with a return of her assumed flippancy, "you are
astonishing. Where in the world am I to look for him?"

"You go everywhere, citoyenne," whispered Chauvelin, insinuatingly,
"Lady Blakeney is the pivot of social London, so I am told . . . you see
everything, you HEAR everything."

"Easy, my friend," retorted Marguerite, drawing, herself up to her full
height and looking down, with a slight thought of contempt on the small,
thin figure before her. "Easy! you seem to forget that there are six
feet of Sir Percy Blakeney, and a long line of ancestors to stand
between Lady Blakeney and such a thing as you propose."

"For the sake of France, citoyenne!" reiterated Chauvelin, earnestly.

"Tush, man, you talk nonsense anyway; for even if you did know who this
Scarlet Pimpernel is, you could do nothing to him--an Englishman!"

"I'd take my chance of that," said Chauvelin, with a dry, rasping little
laugh. "At any rate we could send him to the guillotine first to cool
his ardour, then, when there is a diplomatic fuss about it, we can
apologise--humbly--to the British Government, and, if necessary, pay
compensation to the bereaved family."

"What you propose is horrible, Chauvelin," she said, drawing away from
him as from some noisome insect. "Whoever the man may be, he is brave
and noble, and never--do you hear me?--never would I lend a hand to such
villainy."

"You prefer to be insulted by every French aristocrat who comes to this
country?"

Chauvelin had taken sure aim when he shot this tiny shaft. Marguerite's
fresh young cheeks became a thought more pale and she bit her under lip,
for she would not let him see that the shaft had struck home.

"That is beside the question," she said at last with indifference. "I
can defend myself, but I refuse to do any dirty work for you--or for
France. You have other means at your disposal; you must use them, my
friend."

And without another look at Chauvelin, Marguerite Blakeney turned her
back on him and walked straight into the inn.

"That is not your last word, citoyenne," said Chauvelin, as a flood of
light from the passage illumined her elegant, richly-clad figure, "we
meet in London, I hope!"

"We meet in London," she said, speaking over her shoulder at him, "but
that is my last word."

She threw open the coffee-room door and disappeared from his view,
but he remained under the porch for a moment or two,