y own hands."

He picked up his short-stemmed pipe and pulled savagely at it for
awhile. De Batz was meditating.

"My friend," he said after a little while, "you are agitating yourself
quite unnecessarily, and gravely jeopardising your prospects of getting
a comfortable little income through keeping your fingers off my person.
Who said I wanted to meddle with the child?"

"You had best not," growled Heron.

"Exactly. You have said that before. But do you not think that you
would be far wiser, instead of directing your undivided attention to my
unworthy self, to turn your thoughts a little to one whom, believe me,
you have far greater cause to fear?"

"Who is that?"

"The Englishman."

"You mean the man they call the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

"Himself. Have you not suffered from his activity, friend Heron? I fancy
that citizen Chauvelin and citizen Collot would have quite a tale to
tell about him."

"They ought both to have been guillotined for that blunder last autumn
at Boulogne."

"Take care that the same accusation be not laid at your door this year,
my friend," commented de Batz placidly.

"Bah!"

"The Scarlet Pimpernel is in Paris even now."

"The devil he is!"

"And on what errand, think you?"

There was a moment's silence, and then de Batz continued with slow and
dramatic emphasis:

"That of rescuing your most precious prisoner from the Temple."

"How do you know?" Heron queried savagely.

"I guessed."

"How?"

"I saw a man in the Theatre National to-day..."

"Well?"

"Who is a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel."

"D---- him! Where can I find him?"

"Will you sign a receipt for the three thousand five hundred livres,
which I am pining to hand over to you, my friend, and I will tell you?"

"Where's the money?"

"In my pocket."

Without further words Heron dragged the inkhorn and a sheet of paper
towards him, took up a pen, and wrote a few words rapidly in a loose,
scrawly hand. He strewed sand over the writing, then handed it across
the table to de Batz.

"Will that do?" he asked briefly.

The other was reading the note through carefully.

"I see you only grant me a fortnight," he remarked casually.

"For that amount of money it is sufficient. If you want an extension you
must pay more."

"So be it," assented de Batz coolly, as he folded the paper across.
"On the whole a fortnight's immunity in France these days is quite a
pleasant respite. And I prefer to keep