A beautiful starlit night had followed on the day of incessant rain: acool, balmy, late summer's night, essentially English in its suggestionof moisture and scent of wet earth and dripping leaves.
The magnificent coach, drawn by four of the finest thoroughbreds inEngland, had driven off along the London road, with Sir Percy Blakeneyon the box, holding the reins in his slender feminine hands, and besidehim Lady Blakeney wrapped in costly furs. A fifty-mile drive on astarlit summer's night! Marguerite had hailed the notion of itwith delight. . . . Sir Percy was an enthusiastic whip; his fourthoroughbreds, which had been sent down to Dover a couple of daysbefore, were just sufficiently fresh and restive to add zest to theexpedition and Marguerite revelled in anticipation of the few hours ofsolitude, with the soft night breeze fanning her cheeks, her thoughtswandering, whither away? She knew from old experience that Sir Percywould speak little, if at all: he had often driven her on his beautifulcoach for hours at night, from point to point, without making more thanone or two casual remarks upon the weather or the state of the roads. Hewas very fond of driving by night, and she had very quickly adopted hisfancy: as she sat next to him hour after hour, admiring the dexterous,certain way in which he handled the reins, she often wondered what wenton in that slow-going head of his. He never told her, and she had nevercared to ask.
At "The Fisherman's Rest" Mr. Jellyband was going the round, puttingout the lights. His bar customers had all gone, but upstairs in the snuglittle bedrooms, Mr. Jellyband had quite a few important guests: theComtesse de Tournay, with Suzannne, and the Vicomte, and there were twomore bedrooms ready for Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, ifthe two young men should elect to honour the ancient hostelry and staythe night.
For the moment these two young gallants were comfortably installedin the coffee-room, before the huge log-fire, which, in spite of themildness of the evening, had been allowed to burn merrily.
"I say, Jelly, has everyone gone?" asked Lord Tony, as the worthylandlord still busied himself clearing away glasses and mugs.
"Everyone, as you see, my lord."
"And all your servants gone to bed?"
"All except the boy on duty in the bar, and," added Mr. Jellyband with alaugh, "I expect he'll be asleep afore long, the rascal."
"Then we can talk here undisturbed for half an hour?"
"At your service, my lord. . . . I'll leave your candles on the dresser. . . and your rooms are quite ready . . . I sleep at the top of the housemyself, but if your lordship'll only call loudly enough, I daresay Ishall hear."
"All right, Jelly . . . and . . . I say, put the lamp out--the fire'llgive us all the light we need--and we don't want to attract thepasser-by."
"Al ri', my lord."
Mr. Jellyband did as he was bid--he turned out the quaint old lamp thathung from the raftered ceiling and blew out all the candles.
"Let's have a bottle of wine, Jelly," suggested Sir Andrew.
"Al ri', sir!"
Jellyband went off to fetch the wine. The room now was quite dark, savefor the circle of ruddy and fitful light formed by the brightly blazinglogs in the hearth.
"Is that all, gentlemen?" asked Jellyband, as he returned with a bottleof wine and a couple of glasses, which he placed on the table.
"That'll do nicely, thanks, Jelly!" said Lord Tony.
"Good-night, my lord! Good-night, sir!"
"Good-night, Jelly!"
The two young men listened, whilst the heavy tread of Mr. Jellyband washeard echoing along the passage and staircase. Presently even that sounddied out, and the whole of "The Fisherman's Rest" seemed wrapt in sleep,save the two young men drinking in silence beside the hearth.
For a while no sound was heard, even in the coffee-room, save theticking of the old grandfather's clock and the crackling of the burningwood.
"All right again this time, Ffoulkes?" asked Lord Antony at last.
Sir Andrew had been dreaming evidently, gazing into the fire, and seeingtherein, no doubt, a pretty, piquant face, with large brown eyes and awealth of dark curls round a childish forehead.
"Yes!" he said, still musing, "all right!"
"No hitch?"
"None."
Lord Antony laughed pleasantly as he poured himself out another glass ofwine.
"I need not ask, I suppose, whether you found the journey pleasant thistime?"
"No, friend, you need not ask," replied Sir Andrew, gaily. "It was allright."
"Then here's to her very good health," said jovial Lord Tony. "She'sa bonnie lass, though she IS a French one. And here's to yourcourtship--may it flourish and prosper exceedingly."
He drained his glass to the last drop, then joined his friend beside thehearth.
"Well! you'll be doing the journey next, Tony, I expect," said SirAndrew, rousing himself from his meditations, "you and Hastings,certainly; and I hope you may have as pleasant a task as I had, and ascharming a travelling companion. You have no idea, Tony. . . ."
"No! I haven't," interrupted his friend pleasantly, "but I'll take yourword for it. And now," he added, whilst a sudden earnestness crept overhis jovial young face, "how about business?" The two young men drewtheir chairs closer together, and instinctively, though they were alone,their voices sank to a whisper.
"I saw the Scarlet Pimpernel alone, for a few moments in Calais," saidSir Andrew, "a day or two ago. He crossed over to England two daysbefore we did. He had escorted the party all the way from Paris,dressed--you'll never credit it!--as an old market woman, anddriving--until they were safely out of the city--the covered cart,under which the Comtesse de Tournay, Mlle. Suzanne, and the Vicomte layconcealed among the turnips and cabbages. They, themselves, of course,never suspected who their driver was. He drove them right through a lineof soldiery and a yelling mob, who were screaming, 'A bas les aristos!'But the market cart got through along with some others, and the ScarletPimpernel, in shawl, petticoat and hood, yelled 'A bas les aristos!'louder than anybody. Faith!" added the young man, as his eyes glowedwith enthusiasm for the beloved leader, "that man's a marvel! His cheekis preposterous, I vow!--and that's what carries him through."
Lord Antony, whose vocabulary was more limited than that of his friend,could only find an oath or two with which to show his admiration for hisleader.
"He wants you and Hastings to meet him at Calais," said Sir Andrew,more quietly, "on the 2nd of next month. Let me see! that will be nextWednesday."
"Yes."
"It is, of course, the case of the Comte de Tournay, this time; adangerous task, for the Comte, whose escape from his chateau, after hehad been declared a 'suspect' by the Committee of Public Safety, was amasterpiece of the Scarlet Pimpernel's ingenuity, is now under sentenceof death. It will be rare sport to get HIM out of France, and you willhave a narrow escape, if you get through at all. St. Just has actuallygone to meet him--of course, no one suspects St. Just as yet; but afterthat . . . to get them both out of the country! I'faith, 'twill be atough job, and tax even the ingenuity of our chief. I hope I may yethave orders to be of the party."
"Have you any special instructions for me?"
"Yes! rather more precise ones than usual. It appears that theRepublican Government have sent an accredited agent over to England,a man named Chauvelin, who is said to be terribly bitter against ourleague, and determined to discover the identity of our leader, so thathe may have him kidnapped, the next time he attempts to set foot inFrance. This Chauvelin has brought a whole army of spies with him, anduntil the chief has sampled the lot, he thinks we should meet as seldomas possible on the business of the league, and on no account should talkto each other in public places for a time. When he wants to speak to us,he will contrive to let us know."
The two young men were both bending over the fire for the blaze had dieddown, and only a red glow from the dying embers cast a lurid light ona narrow semicircle in front of the hearth. The rest of the room layburied in complete gloom; Sir Andrew had taken a pocket-book from hispocket, and drawn therefrom a paper, whic
h he unfolded, and togetherthey tried to read it by the dim red firelight. So intent were they uponthis, so wrapt up in the cause, the business they had so much at heart,so precious was this document which came from the very hand of theiradored leader, that they had eyes and ears only for that. They lostcount of the sounds around them, of the dropping of the crisp ash fromthe grate, of the monotonous ticking of the clock, of the soft, almostimperceptible rustle of something on the floor close beside them. Afigure had emerged from under one of the benches; with snake-like,noiseless movements it crept closer and closer to the two young men, notbreathing, only gliding along the floor, in the inky blackness of theroom.
"You are to read these instructions and commit them to memory," said SirAndrew, "then destroy them."
He was about to replace the letter-case into his pocket, when a tinyslip of paper fluttered from it and fell on to the floor. Lord Antonystooped and picked it up.
"What's that?" he asked.
"I don't know," replied Sir Andrew.
"It dropped out of your pocket just now. It certainly does not seem tobe with the other paper."
"Strange!--I wonder when it got there? It is from the chief," he added,glancing at the paper.
Both stooped to try and decipher this last tiny scrap of paper on whicha few words had been hastily scrawled, when suddenly a slight noiseattracted their attention, which seemed to come from the passage beyond.
"What's that?" said both instinctively. Lord Antony crossed the roomtowards the door, which he threw open quickly and suddenly; at that verymoment he received a stunning blow between the eyes, which threw himback violently into the room. Simultaneously the crouching, snake-likefigure in the gloom had jumped up and hurled itself from behind upon theunsuspecting Sir Andrew, felling him to the ground.
All this occurred within the short space of two or three seconds, andbefore either Lord Antony or Sir Andrew had time or chance to utter acry or to make the faintest struggle. They were each seized by twomen, a muffler was quickly tied round the mouth of each, and theywere pinioned to one another back to back, their arms, hands, and legssecurely fastened.
One man had in the meanwhile quietly shut the door; he wore a mask andnow stood motionless while the others completed their work.
"All safe, citoyen!" said one of the men, as he took a final survey ofthe bonds which secured the two young men.
"Good!" replied the man at the door; "now search their pockets and giveme all the papers you find."
This was promptly and quietly done. The masked man having takenpossession of all the papers, listened for a moment or two if there wereany sound within "The Fisherman's Rest." Evidently satisfied that thisdastardly outrage had remained unheard, he once more opened the door andpointed peremptorily down the passage. The four men lifted Sir Andrewand Lord Antony from the ground, and as quietly, as noiselessly as theyhad come, they bore the two pinioned young gallants out of the inn andalong the Dover Road into the gloom beyond.
In the coffee-room the masked leader of this daring attempt was quicklyglancing through the stolen papers.
"Not a bad day's work on the whole," he muttered, as he quietly took offhis mask, and his pale, fox-like eyes glittered in the red glow of thefire. "Not a bad day's work."
He opened one or two letters from Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' pocket-book,noted the tiny scrap of paper which the two young men had only just hadtime to read; but one letter specially, signed Armand St. Just, seemedto give him strange satisfaction.
"Armand St. Just a traitor after all," he murmured. "Now, fairMarguerite Blakeney," he added viciously between his clenched teeth, "Ithink that you will help me to find the Scarlet Pimpernel."
CHAPTER X IN THE OPERA BOX