tain--what shall I say?--certain measures which, at my
advice, the Committee of Public Safety have been forced to adopt with a
view to--"

"A truce on your smooth-tongued speeches, citizen Chauvelin," she
interposed firmly. "Sir Andrew Ffoulkes has told me naught of this--so I
pray you speak plainly and to the point, if you can."

He bowed with marked irony.

"As you please," he said. "Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, hearing certain matters
of which I will tell you anon, made a movement which betrayed him to
one of our spies. At a word from citizen Heron this man followed on
the heels of the young farrier who had shown such interest in the
conversation of the Chief Agent. Sir Andrew, I imagine, burning with
indignation at what he had heard, was perhaps not quite so cautious as
he usually is. Anyway, the man on his track followed him to this door.
It was quite simple, as you see. As for me, I had guessed a week ago
that we would see the beautiful Lady Blakeney in Paris before long. When
I knew where Sir Andrew Ffoulkes lodged, I had no difficulty in guessing
that Lady Blakeney would not be far off."

"And what was there in citizen Heron's conversation last night," she
asked quietly, "that so aroused Sir Andrew's indignation?"

"He has not told you?"

"Oh! it is very simple. Let me tell you, Lady Blakeney, exactly how
matters stand. Sir Percy Blakeney--before lucky chance at last delivered
him into our hands--thought fit, as no doubt you know, to meddle with
our most important prisoner of State."

"A child. I know it, sir--the son of a murdered father whom you and your
friends were slowly doing to death."

"That is as it may be, Lady Blakeney," rejoined Chauvelin calmly; "but
it was none of Sir Percy Blakeney's business. This, however, he chose
to disregard. He succeeded in carrying little Capet from the Temple, and
two days later we had him under lock, and key."

"Through some infamous and treacherous trick, sir," she retorted.

Chauvelin made no immediate reply; his pale, inscrutable eyes were fixed
upon her face, and the smile of irony round his mouth appeared more
strongly marked than before.

"That, again, is as it may be," he said suavely; "but anyhow for the
moment we have the upper hand. Sir Percy is in the Conciergerie, guarded
day and night, more closely than Marie Antoinette even was guarded."

"And he laughs at your bolts and bars, sir," she rejoined proudly.
"Remember Calais, remember Boulogne. His laugh a