"
"Well? And those papers?" she asked carelessly.
"Unfortunately, though they have given me cognisance of
certain names. . .certain movements. . .enough, I think, to thwart
their projected COUP for the moment, it would only be for the
moment, and still leaves me in ignorance of the identity of the
Scarlet Pimpernel.
"La! my friend," she said, with the same assumed flippancy of
manner, "then you are where you were before, aren't you? and you can
let me enjoy the last strophe of the ARIA. Faith!" she added,
ostentatiously smothering an imaginary yawn, "had you not spoken about
my brother. . ."
"I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among the papers there
was a letter to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written by your brother, St.
Just."
"Well? And?"
"That letter shows him to be not only in sympathy with the
enemies of France, but actually a helper, if not a member, of the
League of the Scarlet Pimpernel."
The blow had been struck at last. All along, Marguerite had
been expecting it; she would not show fear, she was determined to seem
unconcerned, flippant even. She wished, when the shock came, to be
prepared for it, to have all her wits about her--those wits which had
been nicknamed the keenest in Europe.
Pages:
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142