Marguerite frowned, puzzled, and murmured slowly, not understanding:
"Gone? Whither?"
"To Dover," he replied, "with Jacques."
"Jacques?" she reiterated, still uncomprehending.
"Her brother," he rejoined. "You know the boy?" Marguerite nodded.
"Hot-headed, impulsive," Moncrif went on, trying to speak calmly. "He and the girl Joséphine always had it in their minds that they were destined to liberate France from her present state of anarchy and bloodshed."
"Like you yourself, M. Moncrif!" Marguerite put in with a smile.
"Oh, I became sobered, reasonable, when I realised how futile it all was. We all owe our lives to that noble Scarlet Pimpernel. They were no longer ours to throw away. At least, that was my theory, and Régine's. I have been engaged in business; and she works hard. . . . Oh, but you know!" he exclaimed impulsively.
"Yes, I know all your circumstances. But to the point, I pray you!"
"Jacques of late has been very excited, feverish. We did not know what was amiss. Régine and I oft spoke of him. And Mme. de Serval has been distraught with anxiety. She worships the boy. He is her only son. But Jacques would not say what was amiss. He spoke to no one. Went to his work every day as usual. Last night he did not come home. A message came for Mme. de Serval to say that a friend in London had persuaded him to go to the play and spend the night with him. Mme. de Serval thought nothing of that. She was pleased to think that Jacques had some amusement to distract him from his brooding thoughts. But Régine, it seems, was not satisfied. After her mother had gone to bed, she went into Jacques' room; found some papers, it seems . . . letters . . . I know not . . . proof in fact that the boy was even then on his way to Dover, having made arrangements to take ship for France."