She heard Brogard's shuffling footsteps, as he came out of the

inner room, muttering his usual string of oaths. On seeing the
strangers, however, he paused in the middle of the room, well within

range of Marguerite's vision, looked at them, with even more withering
contempt than he had bestowed upon his former guests, and muttered,

"SACRRREE SOUTANE!"
Marguerite's heart seemed all at once to stop beating; her

eyes, large and dilated, had fastened on one of the newcomers, who, at
this point, had taken a quick step forward towards Brogard. He was

dressed in the soutane, broad-brimmed hat and buckled shoes habitual
to the French CURE, but as he stood opposite the innkeeper, he threw

open his soutane for a moment, displaying the tri-colour scarf of
officialism, which sight immediately had the effect of transforming

Brogard's attitude of contempt, into one of cringing obsequiousness.
It was the sight of this French CURE, which seemed to freeze the very

blood in Marguerite's veins. She could not see his face, which was
shaded by his broad-brimmed hat, but she recognized the thin, bony hands,

the slight stoop, the whole gait of the man! It was Chauvelin!
The horror of the situation struck her as with a physical

blow; the awful disappointment, the dread of what was to come, made
her very senses reel, and she needed almost superhuman effort, not to

fall senseless beneath it all.
"A plate of soup and a bottle of wine," said Chauvelin imperiously

to Brogard, "then clear out of here--understand? I want to be alone."
Silently, and without any muttering this time, Brogard obeyed.

Chauvelin sat down at the table, which had been prepared for the tall
Englishman, and the innkeeper busied himself obsequiously round him,

dishing up the soup and pouring out the wine. The man who had entered
with Chauvelin and whom Marguerite could not see, stood waiting close

by the door.
At a brusque sign from Chauvelin, Brogard had hurried back to

the inner room, and the former now beckoned to the man who had
accompanied him.

In him Marguerite at once recognised Desgas, Chauvelin's
secretary and confidential factotum, whom she had often seen in Paris,

in days gone by. He crossed the room, and for a moment or two
listened attentively at the Brogards' door.

"Not listening?" asked Chauvelin, curtly.
"No, citoyen."

For a moment Marguerite dreaded lest Chauvelin should order
Desgas to search the place; what would happen if she were to be

discovered, she hardly dared to imagine. Fortunately, however,
Chauvelin seemed more impatient to talk to his secretary than afraid

of spies, for he called Desgas quickly back to his side.
"The English schooner?" he asked.

"She was lost sight of at sundown, citoyen," replied Desgas,
"but was then making west, towards Cap Gris Nez."

"Ah!--good!--" muttered Chauvelin, "and now, about Captain
Jutley?--what did he say?"

"He assured me that all the orders you sent him last week have
been implicitly obeyed. All the roads which converge to this place

have been patrolled night and day ever since: and the beach and cliffs
have been most rigorously searched and guarded."

"Does he know where this `Pere Blanchard's' hut is?"
"No, citoyen, nobody seems to know of it by that name. There

are any amount of fisherman's huts all along the course. . .but. . ."
"That'll do. Now about tonight?" interrupted Chauvelin,

impatiently.
"The roads and the beach are patrolled as usual, citoyen, and

Captain Jutley awaits further orders."
"Go back to him at once, then. Tell him to send

reinforcements to the various patrols; and especially to those along
the beach--you understand?"

Chauvelin spoke curtly and to the point, and every word he
uttered struck at Marguerite's heart like the death-knell of her

fondest hopes.
"The men," he continued, "are to keep the sharpest possible

look-out for any stranger who may be walking, riding, or driving,
along the road or the beach, more especially for a tall stranger, whom

I need not describe further, as probably he will be disguised; but he
cannot very well conceal his height, except by stooping. You understand?"

"Perfectly, citoyen," replied Desgas.
"As soon as any of the men have sighted a stranger, two of

them are to keep him in view. The man who loses sight of the tall
stranger, after he is once seen, will pay for his negligence with his

life; but one man is to ride straight back here and report to me. Is
that clear?"

"Absolutely clear, citoyen."
"Very well, then. Go and see Jutley at once. See the

reinforcements start off for the patrol duty, then ask the captain to
let you have a half-a-dozen more men and bring them here with you.

You can be back in ten minutes. Go--"
Desgas saluted and went to the door.

As Marguerite, sick with horror, listened to Chauvelin's
directions to his underling, the whole of the plan for the capture of

the Scarlet Pimpernel became appallingly clear to her. Chauvelin
wished that the fugitives should be left in false securitywaiting in

their hiddenretreat until Percy joined them. Then the daring plotter
was to be surrounded and caught red-handed, in the very act of aiding

and abetting royalists, who were traitors to the republic. Thus, if
his capture were noised abroad, even the British Government could not

legally protest in his favour; having plotted with the enemies of the
French Government, France had the right to put him to death.

Escape for him and them would be impossible. All the roads
patrolled and watched, the trap well set, the net, wide at present,

but drawing together tighter and tighter, until it closed upon the
daring plotter, whose superhuman cunning even could not rescue him

from its meshes now.
Desgas was about to go, but Chauvelin once more called him

back. Marguerite vaguely wondered what further devilish plans he
could have formed, in order to entrap one brave man, alone, against

two-score of others. She looked at him as he turned to speak to
Desgas; she could just see his face beneath the broad-brimmed,

CURES'S hat. There was at that moment so much deadlyhatred, such
fiendish malice in the thin face and pale, small eyes, that

Marguerite's last hope died in her heart, for she felt that from this
man she could expect no mercy.

"I had forgotten," repeated Chauvelin, with a weird chuckle,
as he rubbed his bony, talon-like hands one against the other, with a

gesture of fiendish satisfaction. "The tall stranger may show fight.
In any case no shooting, remember, except as a last resort. I want

that tall stranger alive. . .if possible."
He laughed, as Dante has told us that the devils laugh at the

sight of the torture of the damned. Marguerite had thought that by
now she had lived through the whole gamut of horror and anguish that

human heart could bear; yet now, when Desgas left the house, and she
remained alone in this lonely, squalid room, with that fiend for

company, she felt as if all that she had suffered was nothing compared
with this. He continued to laugh and chuckle to himself for awhile,

rubbing his hands together in anticipation of his triumph.
His plans were well laid, and he might well triumph! Not a

loophole was left, through which the bravest, the most cunning man
might escape. Every road guarded, every corner watched, and in that

lonely hut somewhere on the coast, a small band of fugitives waiting
for their rescuer, and leading him to his death--nay! to worse than death.

That fiend there, in a holy man's garb, was too much of a devil to allow
a brave man to die the quick, sudden death of a soldier at the post of duty.

He, above all, longed to have the cunning enemy, who had so