"Why not?"

Scarce were those two little words out of St. Just's mouth than he
repented of them. He bit his lip, and with a dark frown upon his
face he turned almost defiantly towards his friend.

But de Batz smiled with easy bonhomie.

"Ah, friend Armand," he said, "you were not cut out for diplomacy,
nor yet for intrigue. So then," he added more seriously, "that
gallant hero, the Scarlet Pimpernel, has hopes of rescuing our
young King from the clutches of Simon the cobbler and of the herd
of hyenas on the watch for his attenuated little corpse, eh?"

"I did not say that," retorted St. Just sullenly.

"No. But I say it. Nay! nay! do not blame yourself, my
over-loyal young friend. Could I, or any one else, doubt for a
moment that sooner or later your romantic hero would turn his
attention to the most pathetic sight in the whole of Europe--the
child-martyr in the Temple prison? The wonder were to me if the
Scarlet Pimpernel ignored our little King altogether for the sake
of his subjects. No, no; do not think for a moment that you have
betrayed your friend's secret to me. When I met you so luckily
today I guessed at once that you were here under the banner of the
enigmatical little red flower, and, thus guessing, I even went a
step further in my conjecture. The Scarlet Pimpernel is in Paris
now in the hope of rescuing Louis XVII from the Temple prison."

"If that is so, you must not only rejoice but should be able to