"Twenty francs, your Excellency," replied the Jew, "and I have
been an honest man all my life."

Chauvelin without further comment took a few pieces of gold
out of his own pocket, and leaving them in the palm of his hand, he

allowed them to jingle as he held them out towards the Jew.
"How many gold pieces are there in the palm of my hand?" he asked quietly.

Evidently he had no desire to terrorize the man, but to conciliate him,
for his own purposes, for his manner was pleasant and suave. No doubt

he feared that threats of the guillotine, and various other persuasive
methods of that type, might addle the old man's brains, and that he would

be more likely to be useful through greed of gain, than through terror
of death.

The eyes of the Jew shot a quick, keen glance at the gold in
his interlocutor's hand.

"At least five, I should say, your Excellency," he replied obsequiously.
"Enough, do you think, to loosen that honest tongue of yours?"

"What does your Excellency wish to know?"
"Whether your horse and cart can take me to where I can find my friend

the tall stranger, who has driven off in Reuben Goldstein's cart?"
"My horse and cart can take your Honour there, where you please."

"To a place called the Pere Blanchard's hut?"
"Your Honour has guessed?" said the Jew in astonishment.

"You know the place?"
"Which road leads to it?"

"The St. Martin Road, your Honour, then a footpath from there to the cliffs."
"You know the road?" repeated Chauvelin, roughly.

"Every stone, every blade of grass, your Honour," replied the Jew quietly.
Chauvelin without another word threw the five pieces of gold

one by one before the Jew, who knelt down, and on his hands and knees
struggled to collect them. One rolled away, and he had some trouble

to get it, for it had lodged underneath the dresser. Chauvelin
quietly waited while the old man scrambled on the floor, to find the

piece of gold.
When the Jew was again on his feet, Chauvelin said,--

"How soon can your horse and cart be ready?"
"They are ready now, your Honour."

"Where?"
"Not ten meters from this door. Will your Excellency deign to look."

"I don't want to see it. How far can you drive me in it?"
"As far as the Pere Blanchard's hut, your Honour, and further

than Reuben's nag took your friend. I am sure that, not two leagues
from here, we shall come across that wily Reuben, his nag, his cart

and the tall stranger all in a heap in the middle of the road."
"How far is the nearest village from here?"

"On the road which the Englishman took, Miquelon is the
nearest village, not two leagues from here."

"There he could get fresh conveyance, if he wanted to go further?"
"He could--if he ever got so far."

"Can you?"
"Will your Excellency try?" said the Jew simply.

"That is my intention," said Chauvelin very quietly, "but
remember, if you have deceived me, I shall tell off two of my most

stalwart soldiers to give you such a beating, that your breath will
perhaps leave your ugly body for ever. But if we find my friend the

tall Englishman, either on the road or at the Pere Blanchard's hut,
there will be ten more gold pieces for you. Do you accept the bargain?"

The Jew again thoughtfully rubbed his chin. He looked at the money
in his hand, then at this stern interlocutor, and at Desgas, who

had stood silently behind him all this while. After a moment's pause,
he said deliberately,--

"I accept."
"Go and wait outside then," said Chauvelin, "and remember to

stick to your bargain, or by Heaven, I will keep to mine."
With a final, most abject and cringing bow, the old Jew

shuffled out of the room. Chauvelin seemed pleased with his
interview, for he rubbed his hands together, with that usual gesture

of his, of malignant satisfaction.
"My coat and boots," he said to Desgas at last.

Desgas went to the door, and apparently gave the necessary orders, for
presently a soldier entered, carrying Chauvelin's coat, boots, and hat.

He took off his soutane, beneath which he was wearing close-fitting
breeches and a cloth waistcoat, and began changing his attire.

"You, citoyen, in the meanwhile," he said to Desgas, "go back
to Captain Jutley as fast as you can, and tell him to let you have

another dozen men, and bring them with you along the St. Martin Road,
where I daresay you will soon overtake the Jew's cart with myself in

it. There will be hot work presently, if I mistake not, in the Pere
Blanchard's hut. We shall corner our game there, I'll warrant, for

this impudent Scarlet Pimpernel has had the audacity--or the
stupidity, I hardly know which--to adhere to his original plans. He

has gone to meet de Tournay, St. Just and the other traitors, which
for the moment, I thought, perhaps, he did not intend to do. When we

find them, there will be a band of desperate men at bay. Some of our
men will, I presume, be put HORS DE COMBAT. These royalists are

good swordsmen, and the Englishman is devilishcunning, and looks very
powerful. Still, we shall be five against one at least. You can

follow the cart closely with your men, all along the St. Martin Road,
through Miquelon. The Englishman is ahead of us, and not likely to

look behind him."
Whilst he gave these curt and concise orders, he had completed

his change of attire. The priest's costume had been laid aside, and
he was once more dressed in his usual dark, tight-fitting clothes. At

last he took up his hat.
"I shall have an interesting prisoner to deliver into your

hands," he said with a chuckle, as with unwonted familiarity he took
Desgas' arm, and led him towards the door. "We won't kill him

outright, eh, friend Desgas? The Pere Blanchard's hut is--an I
mistake not--a lonely spot upon the beach, and our men will enjoy a

bit of rough sport there with the wounded fox. Choose your men well,
friend Desgas. . .of the sort who would enjoy that type of sport--eh?

We must see that Scarlet Pimpernel wither a bit--what?--shrink and
tremble, eh?. . .before we finally. . ." He made an expressive

gesture, whilst he laughed a low, evil laugh, which filled
Marguerite's soul with sickening horror.

"Choose your men well, Citoyen Desgas," he said once more, as
he led his secretary finally out of the room.

CHAPTER XXVII ON THE TRACK
Never for a moment did Marguerite Blakeney hesitate. The last

sounds outside the "Chat Gris" had died away in the night. She had
heard Desgas giving orders to his men, and then starting off towards

the fort, to get a reinforcement of a dozen more men: six were not
thought sufficient to capture the cunning Englishman, whose

resourceful brain was even more dangerous than his valour and his
strength.

Then a few minutes later, she heard the Jew's husky voice
again, evidently shouting to his nag, then the rumble of wheels, and

noise of a rickety cart bumping over the rough road.
Inside the inn, everything was still. Brogard and his wife,

terrified of Chauvelin, had given no sign of life; they hoped to be
forgotten, and at any rate to remain unperceived: Marguerite could not

even hear their usual volleys of muttered oaths.
She waited a moment or two longer, then she quietly slipped

down the broken stairs, wrapped her dark cloak closely round her and
slipped out of the inn.

The night was fairly dark, sufficiently so at any rate to hide
her dark figure from view, whilst her keen ears kept count of the