ere at first . . ."

Marguerite had forgotten all about her husband and her message to
him; his very name, as spoken by Lord Fancourt, sounded strange and
unfamiliar to her, so completely had she in the last five minutes lived
her old life in the Rue de Richelieu again, with Armand always near her
to love and protect her, to guard her from the many subtle intrigues
which were forever raging in Paris in those days.

"I did find him at last," continued Lord Fancourt, "and gave him your
message. He said that he would give orders at once for the horses to be
put to."

"Ah!" she said, still very absently, "you found my husband, and gave him
my message?"

"Yes; he was in the dining-room fast asleep. I could not manage to wake
him up at first."

"Thank you very much," she said mechanically, trying to collect her
thoughts.

"Will your ladyship honour me with the CONTREDANSE until your coach is
ready?" asked Lord Fancourt.

"No, I thank you, my lord, but--and you will forgive me--I really am too
tired, and the heat in the ball-room has become oppressive."

"The conservatory is deliciously cool; let me take you there, and then
get you something. You seem ailing, Lady Blakeney."

"I am only very tired," she repeated wearily, as she allowed Lord
Fancourt to lead her, where subdued lights and green plants lent
coolness to the air. He got her a chair, into which she sank. This long
interval of waiting was intolerable. Why did not Chauvelin come and tell
her the result of his watch?

Lord Fancourt was very attentive. She scarcely heard what he said, and
suddenly startled him by asking abruptly,--

"Lord Fancourt, did you perceive who was in the dining-room just now
besides Sir Percy Blakeney?"

"Only the agent of the French government, M. Chauvelin, equally fast
asleep in another corner," he said. "Why does your ladyship ask?"

"I know not . . . I . . . Did you notice the time when you were there?"

"It must have been about five or ten minutes past one. . . . I wonder
what your ladyship is thinking about," he added, for evidently the fair
lady's thoughts were very far away, and she had not been listening to
his intellectual conversation.

But indeed her thoughts were not very far away: only one storey below,
in this same house, in the dining-room where sat Chauvelin still on the
watch. Had he failed? For one instant that possibility rose before as a
hope--the hope that the Scarlet Pimpernel had been warned by Sir An