rhaps you do not remember me, citizen St. Just. I had not the honour
of the same close friendship with you as I had with your charming
sister. My name is Chauvelin. Can I be of any service to you?"

CHAPTER XVII. CHAUVELIN

Chauvelin! The presence of this man here at this moment made the events
of the past few days seem more absolutely like a dream. Chauvelin!--the
most deadly enemy he, Armand, and his sister Marguerite had in the
world. Chauvelin!--the evil genius that presided over the Secret Service
of the Republic. Chauvelin--the aristocrat turned revolutionary, the
diplomat turned spy, the baffled enemy of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

He stood there vaguely outlined in the gloom by the feeble rays of
an oil lamp fixed into the wall just above. The moisture on his sable
clothes glistened in the flickering light like a thin veil of crystal;
it clung to the rim of his hat, to the folds of his cloak; the ruffles
at his throat and wrist hung limp and soiled.

He had released Armand's arm, and held his hands now underneath his
cloak; his pale, deep-set eyes rested gravely on the younger man's face.

"I had an idea, somehow," continued Chauvelin calmly, "that you and I
would meet during your sojourn in Paris. I heard from my friend Heron
that you had been in the city; he, unfortunately, lost your track almost
as soon as he had found it, and I, too, had begun to fear that our
mutual and ever enigmatical friend, the Scarlet Pimpernel, had spirited
you away, which would have been a great disappointment to me."

Now he once more took hold of Armand by the elbow, but quite gently,
more like a comrade who is glad to have met another, and is preparing
to enjoy a pleasant conversation for a while. He led the way back to the
gate, the sentinel saluting at sight of the tricolour scarf which was
visible underneath his cloak. Under the stone rampart Chauvelin paused.

It was quiet and private here. The group of soldiers stood at the
further end of the archway, but they were out of hearing, and their
forms were only vaguely discernible in the surrounding darkness.

Armand had followed his enemy mechanically like one bewitched and
irresponsible for his actions. When Chauvelin paused he too stood still,
not because of the grip on his arm, but because of that curious numbing
of his will.

Vague, confused thoughts were floating through his brain, the most
dominant one among them being that Fate had effectually ordained
everything