Lord Fancourt was very attentive. She scarcely heard what he said, and suddenly startled him by asking abruptly,—
“Lord Fancourt, did you perceive who was in the dining-room just now besides Sir Percy Blakeney?”
“Only the agent of the French Government, M. Chauvelin, equally fast asleep in another corner,” he said. “Why does your ladyship ask?”
“I know not . . . I . . . Did you notice the time when you were there?”
“It must have been about five or ten minutes past one. . . . I wonder what your ladyship is thinking about,” he added, for evidently the fair lady’s thoughts were very far away, and she had not been listening to his intellectual conversation.
But indeed her thoughts were not very far away: only one storey below, in this same house, in the dining-room where sat Chauvelin still on the watch. Had he failed? For one instant that possibility rose before her as a hope—the hope that the Scarlet Pimpernel had been warned by Sir Andrew, and that Chauvelin’s trap had failed to catch his bird; but that hope soon gave way to fear. Had he failed? But then—Armand!
Lord Fancourt had given up talking since he found that he had no listener. He wanted an opportunity for slipping away: for sitting opposite to a lady, however fair, who is evidently not heeding the most vigorous efforts made for her entertainment, is not exhilarating, even to a Cabinet Minister.
“Shall I find out if your ladyship’s coach is ready,” he said at last, tentatively.
“Oh, thank you . . . thank you . . . if you would be so kind . . . I fear I am but sorry company . . . but I am really tired . . . and, perhaps, would be best alone.”
She had been longing to be rid of him, for she hoped that, like the fox he so resembled, Chauvelin would be prowling round, thinking to find her alone.