essness."

Then as Sir Andrew, very undecided, yet half inclined to yield,
stood silent and irresolute, she pressed her point, gently but firmly
insistent.

"I would not be in the way, Sir Andrew; I would know how to efface
myself so as not to interfere with your plans. But, oh!" she added,
while a quivering note of passion trembled in her voice, "can't you
see that I must breathe the air that he breathes else I shall stifle or
mayhap go mad?"

Sir Andrew turned to his wife, a mute query in his eyes.

"You would do an inhuman and a cruel act," said Suzanne with seriousness
that sat quaintly on her baby face, "if you did not afford your
protection to Marguerite, for I do believe that if you did not take her
with you to-morrow she would go to Paris alone."

Marguerite thanked her friend with her eyes. Suzanne was a child
in nature, but she had a woman's heart. She loved her husband, and,
therefore, knew and understood what Marguerite must be suffering now.

Sir Andrew no longer could resist the unfortunate woman's earnest
pleading. Frankly, he thought that if she remained in England while
Percy was in such deadly peril she ran the grave risk of losing her
reason before the terrible strain of suspense. He knew her to be a woman
of courage, and one capable of great physical endurance; and really he
was quite honest when he said that he did not believe there would be
much danger for the headless League of the Scarlet Pimpernel unless they
succeeded in freeing their chief. And if they did succeed, then indeed
there would be nothing to fear, for the brave and loving wife who, like
every true woman does, and has done in like circumstances since the
beginning of time, was only demanding with passionate insistence the
right to share the fate, good or ill, of the man whom she loved.

CHAPTER XXV. PARIS ONCE MORE

Sir Andrew had just come in. He was trying to get a little warmth into
his half-frozen limbs, for the cold had set in again, and this time with
renewed vigour, and Marguerite was pouring out a cup of hot coffee which
she had been brewing for him. She had not asked for news. She knew that
he had none to give her, else he had not worn that wearied, despondent
look in his kind face.

"I'll just try one more place this evening," he said as soon as he had
swallowed some of the hot coffee--"a restaurant in the Rue de la Harpe;
the members of the Cordeliers' Club often go there for supper, and they
are usually wel