great rapidity. Her hesitation had lasted less than five seconds: Chauvelin
still wore the look of doubting entreaty with which he had first begged
permission to take her hand in his. With an impulsive toss of the head,
she had turned straight towards him, ready with the phrase with which
she meant to dismiss him from her sight now and forever, when suddenly
a well-known laugh broke in upon her ear, and a lazy, drawly voice said
pleasantly:

"La! I vow the air is fit to poison you! Your Royal Highness, I entreat,
let us turn our backs upon these gates of Inferno, where lost souls would
feel more at home than doth your humble servant."

The next moment His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had entered
the tent, closely followed by Sir Percy Blakeney.





Chapter VIII : The Invitation



It was in truth a strange situation, this chance meeting between Percy
Blakeney and ex-Ambassador Chauvelin.

Marguerite looked up at her husband. She saw him shrug his broad
shoulders as he first caught sight of Chauvelin, and glance down in his
usual lazy, good-humoured manner at the shrunken figure of the silent
Frenchman. The words she meant to say never crossed her lips; she was