And the Scarlet Pimpernel was nothing to you." She tried to read his face, tried to discover in those inscrutable eyes of his, some hidden meaning to his words.

Instinct had warned her of course that this man could be nothing but an enemy, always and at all times.

But he seemed so broken, so abject now, that contempt for his dejected attitude, and for the defeat which had been inflicted on him, chased the last remnant of fear from her heart.
"I did not even succeed in harming that enigmatical personage," continued Chauvelin with the same self-abasement.

"Sir Percy Blakeney, you remember, threw himself across my plans, quite innocently of course.
I failed where you succeeded.

Luck has deserted me.