"You choose to suspect me, milor; and I'll no longer try to combat your mistrust. But to one more word you must listen: Remember the fable of the lion and the mouse. The invincible Scarlet Pimpernel might one day need the help of Theresia Cabarrus. I would wish you to believe that you can always count on it."
She extended her hand to him, and hie took it, the while his inveterately mocking glance challenged her earnest one. After a moment or two he stooped and kissed her finger-tips.
"Let me rather put it differently, dear lady," he said. "One day the exquisite Theresia Cabarrus—the Egeria of the Terrorists, the fiancee of the Great Tallien—might need the help of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel."
"I would sooner die than seek your help, milor," she protested earnestly.
"Here in Dover, perhaps . . . but in France? . . . And you said you were going back to France, in spite of Chauvelin and his pale eyes, and his suspicions of you."
"Since you think so ill of me," she retorted, "why should you offer me your help?"
"Because," he replied lightly, "with the exception of my friend Chauvelin, I have never had so amusing an enemy; and it would afford me intense satisfaction to render you a signal service."
"You mean, that you would risk your life to save mine?"
"No. I should not risk my life, dear lady," he said with his puzzling smile. "But I should—God help me!—do my best, if the need arose, to save yours."
After which, with another ceremonious bow, he took final leave of her, and she was left standing there, looking after his tall, retreating figure until the turn of the street hid him from view.