"Warn me? Of what?"
Nervous, agitated, restless, Martin-Roget had once more gone back to his seat: his hands were trembling as he held them up mechanically to the blaze and his face was the colour of lead. In contrast with his restlessness Chauvelin appeared the more calm and bland.
"Why should you wish to warn me?" asked the other querulously, but with an attempt at his former over-bearing manner. "What are my affairs to you—what do you know about them?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing, citizen Martin-Roget," replied Chauvelin pleasantly, "I was only indulging the fancy I spoke to you about just now of putting two and two together in order to make four. The chartering of a smuggler's craft—aristos on board her—her ostensible destination Holland—her real objective Le Croisic.... Le Croisic is now the port for Nantes and we don't bring aristos into Nantes these days for the object of providing them with a feather-bed and a competence, what?"
"And," retorted Martin-Roget quietly, "if your surmises are correct, citizen Chauvelin, what then?"
"Oh, nothing!" replied the other indifferently. "Only ... take care, citizen ... that is all."
"Take care of what?"
"Of the man who brought me, Chauvelin, to ruin and disgrace."
"Oh! I have heard of that legend before now," said Martin-Roget with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. "The man they call the Scarlet Pimpernel you mean?"
"Why, yes!"