In the little room now there only remained a few men. Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes had taken the precaution of closing the door after the ladies had
gone.

Then His Royal Highness turned once more to Monsieur Chauvelin and
said with an obvious show of indifference:

"Faith, Monsieur! meseems we are all enacting a farce, which can have
no final act. I vow that I cannot allow my friend Blakeney to go over to
France at your bidding. Your government now will not allow my father's
subjects to land on your shores without a special passport, and then only
for a specific purpose."

"La, your Royal Highness," interposed Sir Percy, "I pray you have no
fear for me on that score. My engaging friend here has--an I mistake not-
-a passport ready for me in the pocket of his sable-hued coat, and as we
are hoping effectually to spit one another over there ... gadzooks! but
there's the specific purpose. ... Is it not true, sir," he added, turning once
more to Chauvelin, "that in the pocket of that exquisitely cut coat of
yours, you have a passport --name in blank perhaps--which you had
specially designed for me?"

It was so carelessly, so pleasantly said, that no one save Chauvelin
guessed the real import of Sir Percy's words. Chauvelin, of course, knew
their inner meaning: he understood that Blakeney wished to convey to
him the fact that he was well aware that the whole scene to-night had
been prearranged, and that it was willingly and with eyes wide open that
he walked into the trap which the revolutionary patriot had so carefully
laid for him.