As
usual, his get-up was absolutely irreproachable, the fine Mechlin lace
at his neck and wrists were immaculate and white, his fair hair was
carefully brushed, and he carried his eyeglass with his usual affected
gesture. In fact, at this moment, Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., might
have been on his way to a garden-party at the Prince of Wales',
instead of deliberately, cold-bloodedly running his head in a trap,
set for him by his deadliest enemy.
He stood for a moment in the middle of the room, whilst
Marguerite, absolutely paralysed with horror, seemed unable even to
breathe.
Every moment she expected that Chauvelin would give a signal,
that the place would fill with soldiers, that she would rush down and
help Percy to sell his life dearly. As he stood there, suavely
unconscious, she very nearly screamed out to him,--
"Fly, Percy!--'tis your deadly enemy!--fly before it be too late!"
But she had not time even to do that, for the next moment
Blakeney quietly walked to the table, and, jovially clapped the CURE
on the back, said in his own drawly, affected way,--
"Odds's fish!. . .er. . .M.
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