“Who sent it?” she said.
“The runner said, my lady,” replied the groom, “that his orders were to deliver this, and that your ladyship would understand from whom it came.”
Marguerite tore open the envelope. Already her instinct had told her what it contained, and her eyes only glanced at it mechanically.
It was a letter written by Armand St. Just to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes—the letter which Chauvelin’s spies had stolen at “The Fisherman’s Rest,” and which Chauvelin had held as a rod over her to enforce her obedience.
Now he had kept his word—he had sent her back St. Just’s compromising letter . . . for he was on the track of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Marguerite’s senses reeled, her very soul seemed to be leaving her body; she tottered, and would have fallen but for Suzanne’s arm round her waist. With superhuman effort she regained control over herself—there was yet much to be done.
“Bring that runner here to me,” she said to the servant, with much calm. “He has not gone?”
“No, my lady.”
The groom went, and Marguerite turned to Suzanne.
“And you, child, run within. Tell Lucile to get ready. I fear I must send you home, child. And—stay, tell one of the maids to prepare a travelling dress and cloak for me.”