Obviously he had not taken the precaution of having the inn
surrounded with soldiers. Blakeney had evidently guessed that much,

and no doubt his resourceful brain had already formed some plan by
which he could turn this unexpectedinterview to account.

Marguerite up in the loft had not moved. She had made a
solemn promise to Sir Andrew not to speak to her husband before

strangers, and she had sufficient self-concontrol not to throw herself
unreasoningly and impulsively across his plans. To sit still and

watch these two men together was a terrible trial of fortitude.
Marguerite had heard Chauvelin give the orders for the patrolling of

all the roads. She knew that if Percy now left the "Chat Gris"--in
whatever direction he happened to go--he could not go far without

being sighted by some of Captain Jutley's men on patrol. On the other
hand, if he stayed, then Desgas would have time to come back with the

dozen men Chauvelin had specially ordered.
The trap was closing in, and Marguerite could do nothing but

watch and wonder. The two men looked such a strange contrast, and of
the two it was Chauvelin who exhibited a slight touch of fear.

Marguerite knew him well enough to guess what was passing in his mind.
He had no fear for his own person, although he certainly was alone in

a lonely inn with a man who was powerfully built, and who was daring
and reckless beyond the bounds of probability. She knew that

Chauvelin would willingly have braved perilous encounters for the sake
of the cause he had at heart, but what he did fear was that this

impudent Englishman would, by knocking him down, double his own
chances of escape; his underlings might not succeed so sell in

capturing the Scarlet Pimpernel, when not directed by the cunning hand
and the shrewd brain, which had deadly hate for an incentive.

Evidently, however, the representative of the French
Government had nothing to fear for the moment, at the hands of his

powerful adversary. Blakeney, with his most inane laugh and pleasant
good-nature, was solemnly patting him on the back.

"I am so demmed sorry. . ." he was sayingcheerfully, "so very
sorry. . .I seem to have upset you. . .eating soup, too. . .nasty,

awkward thing, soup. . .er. . .Begad!--a friend of mine died once. . .
er. . .choked. . .just like you. . .with a spoonful of soup.

And he smiled shyly, good-humouredly, down at Chauvelin.
"Odd's life!" he continued, as soon as the latter had somewhat

recovered himself, "beastly hole this. . .ain't it now? La! you
don't mind?" he added, apologetically, as he sat down on a chair close

to the table and drew the soup tureen towards him. "That fool Brogard
seems to be asleep or something."

There was a second plate on the table, and he calmly helped
himself to soup, then poured himself out a glass of wine.

For a moment Marguerite wondered what Chauvelin would do. His
disguise was so good that perhaps he meant, on recovering himself, to

deny his identity: but Chauvelin was too astute to make such an
obviously false and childish move, and already he too had stretched

out his hand and said pleasantly,--
"I am indeed charmed to see you Sir Percy. You must excuse

me--h'm--I thought you the other side of the Channel. Sudden surprise
almost took my breath away."

"La!" said Sir Percy, with a good-humoured grin, "it did that
quite, didn't it--er--M.--er--Chaubertin?"

"Pardon me--Chauvelin."
"I beg pardon--a thousand times. Yes--Chauvelin of course. . . .

Er. . .I never could cotton to foreign names. . . ."
He was calmly eating his soup, laughing with pleasant good-humour,

as if he had come all the way to Calais for the express purpose of
enjoying supper at this filthy inn, in the company of his arch-enemy.

For the moment Marguerite wondered why Percy did not knock the
little Frenchman down then and there--and no doubt something of the

sort must have darted through his mind, for every now and then his
lazy eyes seemed to flash ominously, as they rested on the slight

figure of Chauvelin, who had now quite recovered himself and was also
calmly eating his soup.

But the keen brain, which had planned and carried through so
many daring plots, was too far-seeing to take unnecessary risks. This

place, after all, might be infested with spies; the innkeeper might be
in Chauvelin's pay. One call on Chauvelin's part might bring twenty

men about Blakeney's ears for aught he knew, and he might be caught
and trapped before he could help, or, at least, warn the fugitives.

This he would not risk; he meant to help the others, to get THEM
safely away; for he had pledged his word to them, and his word he

WOULD keep. And whilst he ate and chatted, he thought and planned,
whilst, up in the loft, the poor, anxious woman racked her brain as to

what she should do, and endured agonies of longing to rush down to
him, yet not daring to move for fear of upsetting his plans.

"I didn't know," Blakeney was saying jovially, "that you. . .
er. . .were in holy orders."

"I. . .er. . .hem. . ." stammered Chauvelin. The calm impudence
of his antagonist had evidently thrown him off his usual balance.

"But, la! I should have known you anywhere," continued Sir
Percy, placidly, as he poured himself out another glass of wine,

"although the wig and hat have changed you a bit."
"Do you think so?"

"Lud! they alter a man so. . .but. . .begad! I hope you
don't mind my having made the remark?. . .Demmed bad form making

remarks. . . . I hope you don't mind?"
"No, no, not at all--hem! I hope Lady Blakeney is well," said

Chauvelin, hurriedly changing the topic of conversation.
Blakeney, with much deliberation, finished his plate of soup,

drank his glass of wine, and, momentarily, it seemed to Marguerite as
if he glanced all round the room.

"Quite well, thank you," he said at last, drily. There was a
pause, during which Marguerite could watch these two antagonists who,

evidently in their minds, were measuring themselves against one
another. She could see Percy almost full face where he sat at the

table not ten yards from where she herself was crouching, puzzled, not
knowing what to do, or what she should think. She had quite

controlled her impulse now of rushing down hand disclosing herself to
her husband. A man capable of acting a part, in the way he was doing

at the present moment, did not need a woman's word to warn him to be
cautious.

Marguerite indulged in the luxury, dear to every tender
woman's heart, of looking at the man she loved. She looked through

the tattered curtain, across at the handsome face of her husband, in
whose lazy blue eyes, and behind whose inane smile, she could now so

plainly see the strength, energy, and resourcefulness which had caused
the Scarlet Pimpernel to be reverenced and trusted by his followers.

"There are nineteen of us ready to lay down our lives for your
husband, Lady Blakeney," Sir Andrew had said to her; and as she looked

at the forehead, low, but square and broad, the eyes, blue, yet
deep-set and intense, the whole aspect of the man, of indomitable

energy, hiding, behind a perfectly acted comedy, his almost superhuman
strength of will and marvellous ingenuity, she understood the

fascination which he exercised over his followers, for had he not also
cast his spells over her heart and her imagination?

Chauvelin, who was trying to conceal his impatience beneath
his usual urbane manner, took a quick look at his watch. Desgas

should not be long: another two or three minutes, and this impudent
Englishman would be secure in the keeping of half a dozen of Captain

Jutley's most trusted men.
"You are on your way to Paris, Sir Percy?" he asked carelessly.

"Odd's life, no," replied Blakeney, with a laugh. "Only as
far as Lille--not Paris for me. . .beastlyuncomfortable place Paris,

just now. . .eh, Monsieur Chaubertin. . .beg pardon. . .Chauvelin!"
"Not for an English gentleman like yourself, Sir Percy,"