She felt lonely, frightened for
Armand's sake; she longed to seek comfort and advice from someone who
would know how to help and console. Sir Percy Blakeney had loved her
once; he was her husband; why should she stand alone through this
terrible ordeal? He had very little brains, it is true, but he had
plenty of muscle: surely, if she provided the thought, and he the
manly energy and pluck, together they could outwit the astute
diplomatist, and save the hostage from his vengeful hands, without
imperilling the life of the noble leader of that gallant little band
of heroes. Sir Percy knew St. Just well--he seemed attached to
him--she was sure that he could help.
Chauvelin was taking no further heed of her. He had said his
cruel "Either--or--" and left her to decide. He, in his turn now,
appeared to be absorbed in the sour-stirring melodies of ORPHEUS,
and was beating time to the music with his sharp, ferret-like head.
A discreet rap at the door roused Marguerite from her
thoughts. It was Sir Percy Blakeney, tall, sleepy, good-humoured, and
wearing that half-shy, half-inane smile, which just now seemed to
irritate her every nerve.
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