"Mine, I grant you; mine, absolutely! But, hang it, man! I had to tell you that your breeches were badly cut."
"And I, that we are at your service, to end the business as soon as may be."
"To——?" And once more Sir Percy passed his firm hand across his throat. Then he gave a shudder.
"B-r-r-r!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea you were in such a demmed hurry."
"We await your pleasure, Sir Percy. Lady Blakeney must not be kept in suspense too long. Shall we say that in three days . . .?"
"Make it four, my dear M. Chambertin, and I am eternally your debtor."
"In four days then, Sir Percy," Chauvelin rejoined with pronounced sarcasm. "You see how ready I am to meet you in a spirit of conciliation! Four days, you say? Very well then; for four days more we keep our prisoner in those rooms upstairs. . . . After that——"
He paused, awed mayhap, in spite of himself, by the diabolical thought which had suddenly come into his mind—a sudden inspiration which in truth must have emanated from some unclean spirit with which he held converse. He looked the Scarlet Pimpernel—his enemy—squarely in the face. Conscious of his power, he was no longer afraid. What he longed for most at this moment was to see the least suspicion of a shadow dim the mocking light that danced in those lazy, supercilious eyes, or the merest tremor pass over the slender hand framed in priceless Mechlin lace.
For a while complete silence reigned in the bare, dank room—a silence broken only by the stertorous, rapid breathing of the one man who appeared moved. That man was not Sir Percy Blakeney. He indeed had remained quite still, spy-glass in hand, the good-humoured smile still dancing round his lips. Somewhere in the far distance a church clock struck the hour. Then only did Chauvelin put his full fiendish project into words.
"For four days," he reiterated with slow deliberation, "We keep our prisoner in the room upstairs. . . . After that, Captain Boyer has orders to shoot her."