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.

Even now she did not flinch.

She knew that Chauvelin had spoken the truth; the man was too earnest, too blindly devoted to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud of his countrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low, purposeless falsehoods.
That letter of Armand's--foolish, imprudent Armand--was in Chauvelin's hands.