has begged his way in the streets of Paris ever since he was released
from gaol some months ago, after he had served a term for larceny. Even
your own man Hebert admits to feeling doubtful on the point. You have
had the nightmare, citizen," concluded Fouquier-Tinville with a harsh
laugh.

"But, name of a dog!" broke in Chauvelin savagely. "You are not
proposing to let the man go?"

"What else can I do?" the other rejoined fretfully. "We shall get into
terrible trouble if we interfere with a man like Paul Mole. You know
yourself how it is these days. We should have the whole of the rabble of
Paris clamouring for our blood. If, after we have guillotined him, he is
proved to be a good patriot, it will be my turn next. No! I thank you!"

"I tell you, man," retorted Chauvelin desperately, "that the man is not
Paul Mole--that he is the English spy whom we all know as the Scarlet
Pimpernel."

"EH BIEN!" riposted Fouquier-Tinville. "Bring me more tangible proof
that our prisoner is not Paul Mole and I'll deal with him quickly
enough, never fear. But if by to-morrow morning you do not satisfy me on
the point ... I must let him go his way."

A savage oath rose to Chauvelin's lips. He felt like a man who has been
running, panting to reach a goal, who sees that goal within easy
distance of him, and is then suddenly captured, caught in invisible
meshes which hold him tightly, and against which he is powerless to
struggle. For the moment he hated Fouquier-Tinville with a deadly
hatred, would have tortured and threatened him until he wrung a consent,