His hot hands had soiled it and pounded it until it was a mere rag and the writing on it illegible.

But, such as it was, he threw it down with a blasphemous oath on the desk in front of Heron's eyes.
"It is that accursed Englishman who has been at work again," he said more calmly; "I guessed it the moment I heard your story.

Set your whole army of sleuth-hounds on his track, citizen; you'll need them all." Heron picked up the scrap of torn paper and tried to decipher the writing on it by the light from the lamp.

He seemed almost dazed now with the awful catastrophe that had befallen him, and the fear that his own wretched life would have to pay the penalty for the disappearance of the child.
As for Armand--even in the midst of his own troubles, and of his own anxiety for Jeanne, he felt a proud exultation in his heart.

The Scarlet Pimpernel had succeeded; Percy had not failed in his self-imposed undertaking.