"
"That is right," said Chauvelin, rubbing his hands, well
pleased.
"I have further news for you, citoyen."
"What is it?"
"A tall Englishman had a long conversation about
three-quarters of an hour ago with a Jew, Reuben by name, who lives
not ten paces from here."
"Yes--and?" queried Chauvelin, impatiently.
"The conversation was all about a horse and cart, which the
tall Englishman wished to hire, and which was to have been ready for
him by eleven o'clock."
"It is past that now. Where does that Reuben live?"
"A few minutes' walk from this door."
"Send one of the men to find out if the stranger has driven
off in Reuben's cart."
"Yes, citoyen."
Desgas went to give the necessary orders to one of the men.
Not a word of this conversation between him and Chauvelin had escaped
Marguerite, and every word they had spoken seemed to strike at her
heart, with terrible hopelessness and dark foreboding.
She had come all this way, and with such high hopes and firm
determination to help her husband, and so far she had been able to do
nothing, but to watch, with a heart breaking with anguish, the meshes
of the deadly net closing round the daring Scarlet Pimpernel.
Pages:
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332