very happy at the thought of ringing the dearly-loved Angelus in his
own old church once again. So when he was peremptorily pushed into the
room and found himself close to Marguerite, with four or five soldiers
standing round them, he quietly pulled his old rosary from his pocket
and began murmuring gentle "Paters" and "Aves" under his breath.

Beside him sat Marguerite, rigid as a statue: her cloak thrown over her
shoulders, so that its hood might hide her face. She could not now have
said how that awful day had passed, how she had managed to survive the
terrible, nerve-racking suspense, the agonizing doubt as to what was
going to happen. But above all, what she had found most unendurable was
the torturing thought that in this same grim and frowning building her
husband was there... somewhere... how far or how near she could not
say... but she knew that she was parted from him and perhaps would not
see him again, not even at the hour of death.

That Percy would never write that infamous letter and LIVE, she knew.
That he might write it in order to save her, she feared was possible,
whilst the look of triumph on Chauvelin's face had aroused her most
agonizing terrors.

When she was summarily ordered to go into the next room, she realized
at once that all hope now was more than futile. The walls lined with
troops, the attitude of her enemies, and above all that table with
paper, ink and pens ready as it were for the accomplishment of the
hideous and monstrous deed, all made her very heart numb, as if it were
held within the chill embrace of death.

"If the woman moves, speaks or screams, gag her at once!" said Collot
roughly the moment she sat down, and Sergeant Hebert stood over her,
gag and cloth in hand, whilst two soldiers placed heavy hands on her
shoulders.

But she neither moved nor spoke, not even presently when a loud and
cheerful voice came echoing from a distant corridor, and anon the door
opened and her husband came in, accompanied by Chauvelin.

The ex-ambassador was very obviously in a state of acute nervous
tension; his hands were tightly clasped behind his back, and his
movements were curiously irresponsible and jerky. But Sir Percy Blakeney
looked a picture of calm unconcern: the lace bow at his throat was tied
with scrupulous care, his eyeglass upheld at quite the correct angle,
and his delicate-coloured caped coat was thrown back just sufficiently
to afford a glimpse of the dainty cloth suit and