“Chauvelin,” she said at last desperately, “I must know what has happened.”

“What has happened, dear lady?” he said, with affected surprise. “Where? When?”

“You are torturing me, Chauvelin. I have helped you to-night … surely I have the right to know. What happened in the dining-room at one o’clock just now?”

She spoke in a whisper, trusting that in the general hubbub of the crowd her words would remain unheeded by all, save the man at her side.

“Quiet and peace reigned supreme, fair lady; at that hour I was asleep in the corner of one sofa and Sir Percy Blakeney in another.”

“Nobody came into the room at all?”

“Nobody.”

“Then we have failed, you and I? … ”

“Yes! we have failed—perhaps … ”

“But Armand?” she pleaded.

“Ah! Armand St. Just’s chances hang on a thread … pray heaven, dear lady, that that thread may not snap.”

“Chauvelin, I worked for you, sincerely, earnestly … remember …”

“I remember my promise,” he said quietly. “The day that the Scarlet Pimpernel and I meet on French soil, St. Just will be in the arms of his charming sister.”

“Which means that a brave man’s blood will be on my hands,” she said, with a shudder.

“His blood, or that of your brother. Surely at the present moment you must hope, as I do, that the enigmatical Scarlet Pimpernel will start for Calais to-day—”

“I am only conscious of one hope, citoyen.”

“And that is?”

“That Satan, your master, will have need of you elsewhere, before the sun rises to-day.”

“You flatter me, citoyenne.”

She had detained him for a while, mid-way down the stairs, trying to get at the thoughts which lay beyond that thin, fox-like mask. But Chauvelin remained urbane, sarcastic, mysterious; not a line betrayed to the poor, anxious woman whether she need fear or whether she dared to hope.

Downstairs on the landing she was soon surrounded. Lady Blakeney never stepped from any house into her coach, without an escort of fluttering human moths around the dazzling light of her beauty. But before she finally turned away from Chauvelin, she held out a tiny hand to him, with that pretty gesture of childish appeal which was so essentially her own.

“Give me some hope, my little Chauvelin,” she pleaded.

With perfect gallantry he bowed over that tiny hand, which looked so dainty and white through the delicately transparent black lace mitten, and kissing the tips of the rosy fingers:—