e la Ferraille above the saddler's shop.
Marguerite had returned alone from the expedition to the Rue de
Charonne. Whilst Sir Andrew took charge of the little party of fugitives
and escorted them out of Paris, she came hack to her lodgings in order
to collect her belongings, preparatory to taking up her quarters in the
house of Lucas, the old-clothes dealer. She returned also because she
hoped to see Armand.

"If you care to impart the contents of the letter to me, come to my
lodgings to-night," she had said.

All day a phantom had haunted her, the phantom of an agonising
suspicion.

But now the phantom had vanished never to return. Armand was sitting
close beside her, and he told her that the chief had selected him
amongst all the others to stand by him inside the walls of Paris until
the last.

"I shall mayhap," thus closed that precious document, "have no means
of ascertaining definitely whether you will act in accordance with this
letter. But somehow, Armand, I know that you will."

"T know that you will, Armand," reiterated Marguerite fervently.

She had only been too eager to be convinced; the dread and dark
suspicion which had been like a hideous poisoned sting had only vaguely
touched her soul; it had not gone in very deeply. How could it, when in
its death-dealing passage it encountered the rampart of tender, almost
motherly love?

Armand, trying to read his sister's thoughts in the depths of her blue
eyes, found the look in them limpid and clear. Percy's message to Armand
had reassured her just as he had intended that it should do. Fate had
dealt over harshly with her as it was, and Blakeney's remorse for the
sorrow which he had already caused her, was scarcely less keen than
Armand's. He did not wish her to bear the intolerable burden of hatred
against her brother; and by binding St. Just close to him at the
supreme hour of danger he hoped to prove to the woman whom he loved so
passionately that Armand was worthy of trust.

PART III.

CHAPTER XXXV. THE LAST PHASE

"Well? How is it now?"

"The last phase, I think."

"He will yield?"

"He must."

"Bah! you have said it yourself often enough; those English are tough."

"It takes time to hack them to pieces, perhaps. In this case even you,
citizen Chauvelin, said that it would take time. Well, it has taken just
seventeen days, and now the end is in sight."

It was close on midnight in the guard-room which gave on the innermost
cell