Even last night when Chauvelin went to Lord Grenville's dining-room to seek that daring Scarlet Pimpernel, he only saw that inane Sir Percy Blakeney fast asleep in a corner of the sofa.
Had his astute mind guessed the secret, then?
Here lay the whole awful, horrible, amazing puzzle.

In betraying a nameless stranger to his fate in order to save her brother, had Marguerite Blakeney sent her husband to his death?
No! no! no! a thousand times no! Surely Fate could not deal a blow like that: Nature itself would rise in revolt: her hand, when it held that tiny scrap of paper last night, would have surely have been struck numb ere it committed a deed so appalling and so terrible.
"But what is it, CHERIE ?" said little Suzanne, now genuinely alarmed, for Marguerite's colour had become dull and ashen.

"Are you ill, Marguerite?
What is it ?" "Nothing, nothing, child," she murmured, as in a dream.

"Wait a moment.

.