When we all came upstairs again, Lady Portarles buttonholed him and started on the subject of pretty Mlle.

Suzanne de Tournay.

I knew he would not move until Lady Portarles had exhausted on the subject, which will not be for another quarter of an hour at least, and it is five minutes to one now." He was preparing to go, and went up to the doorway where, drawing aside the curtain, he stood for a moment pointing out to Marguerite the distant figure of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in close conversation with Lady Portarles.
"I think," he said, with a triumphant smile, "that I may safely expect to find the person I seek in the dining-room, fair lady." "There may be more than one." "Whoever is there, as the clock strikes one, will be shadowed by one of my men; of these, one, or perhaps two, or even three, will leave for France to-morrow.

ONE of these will be the 'Scarlet Pimpernel.'" "Yes ?--And ?" "I also, fair lady, will leave for France to-morrow.

The papers found at Dover upon the person of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes speak of the neighborhood of Calais, of an inn which I know well, called 'Le Chat Gris,' of a lonely place somewhere on the coast--the Pere Blanchard's hut--which I must endeavor to find.