clothes which he affected, with the primly-folded jabot and cuffs edged
with narrow lace.

Without waiting for permission from her he quietly and deliberately
placed his hat and cloak on a chair. Then he turned once more
toward her, and made a movement as if to advance into the room; but
instinctively she put up a hand as if to ward off the calamity of his
approach.

He shrugged his shoulders, and the shadow of a smile, that had neither
mirth nor kindliness in it, hovered round the corners of his thin lips.

"Have I your permission to sit?" he asked.

"As you will," she replied slowly, keeping her wide-open eyes fixed
upon him as does a frightened bird upon the serpent whom it loathes and
fears.

"And may I crave a few moments of your undivided attention, Lady
Blakeney?" he continued, taking a chair, and so placing it beside the
table that the light of the lamp when he sat remained behind him and his
face was left in shadow.

"Is it necessary?" asked Marguerite.

"It is," he replied curtly, "if you desire to see and speak with your
husband--to be of use to him before it is too late."

"Then, I pray you, speak, citizen, and I will listen."

She sank into a chair, not heeding whether the light of the lamp fell
on her face or not, whether the lines in her haggard cheeks, or her
tear-dimmed eyes showed plainly the sorrow and despair that had traced
them. She had nothing to hide from this man, the cause of all the
tortures which she endured. She knew that neither courage nor sorrow
would move him, and that hatred for Percy--personal deadly hatred for
the man who had twice foiled him--had long crushed the last spark of
humanity in his heart.

"Perhaps, Lady Blakeney," he began after a slight pause and in his
smooth, even voice, "it would interest you to hear how I succeeded in
procuring for myself this pleasure of an interview with you?"

"Your spies did their usual work, I suppose," she said coldly.

"Exactly. We have been on your track for three days, and yesterday
evening an unguarded movement on the part of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes gave us
the final clue to your whereabouts."

"Of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes?" she asked, greatly puzzled.

"He was in an eating-house, cleverly disguised, I own, trying to glean
information, no doubt as to the probable fate of Sir Percy Blakeney.
As chance would have it, my friend Heron, of the Committee of
General Security, chanced to be discussing with reprehensible
openness--er--cer