ut, the sweet
sounds of peaceful slumbers proceedings from his nostrils, reclined the
gorgeously-apparelled, long-limbed husband of the cleverest woman in
Europe.

Chauvelin looked at him as he lay there, placid, unconscious, at peace
with all the world and himself, after the best of suppers, and a smile,
that was almost one of pity, softened for a moment the hard lines of the
Frenchman's face and the sarcastic twinkle of his pale eyes.

Evidently the slumberer, deep in dreamless sleep, would not interfere
with Chauvelin's trap for catching that cunning Scarlet Pimpernel. Again
he rubbed his hands together, and, following the example of Sir Percy
Blakeney, he too, stretched himself out in the corner of another
sofa, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, gave forth sounds of peaceful
breathing, and . . . waited!

CHAPTER XV DOUBT

Marguerite Blakeney had watched the slight sable-clad figure of
Chauvelin, as he worked his way through the ball-room. Then perforce she
had had to wait, while her nerves tingled with excitement.

Listlessly she sat in the small, still deserted boudoir, looking out
through the curtained doorway on the dancing couples beyond: looking
at them, yet seeing nothing, hearing the music, yet conscious of naught
save a feeling of expectancy, of anxious, weary waiting.

Her mind conjured up before her the vision of what was, perhaps at this
very moment, passing downstairs. The half-deserted dining-room, the
fateful hour--Chauvelin on the watch!--then, precise to the moment, the
entrance of a man, he, the Scarlet Pimpernel, the mysterious leader, who
to Marguerite had become almost unreal, so strange, so weird was this
hidden identity.

She wished she were in the supper-room, too, at this moment, watching
him as he entered; she knew that her woman's penetration would at once
recognise in the stranger's face--whoever he might be--that strong
individuality which belongs to a leader of men--to a hero: to the
mighty, high-soaring eagle, whose daring wings were becoming entangled
in the ferret's trap.

Woman-like, she thought of him with unmixed sadness; the irony of that
fate seemed so cruel which allowed the fearless lion to succumb to the
gnawing of a rat! Ah! had Armand's life not been at stake! . . .

"Faith! your ladyship must have thought me very remiss," said a voice
suddenly, close to her elbow. "I had a deal of difficulty in delivering
your message, for I could not find Blakeney anywh