an admission, out of him.

Name of a name! when that damnable English spy was actually in his
power, the man was a pusillanimous fool to allow the rich prize to slip
from his grasp! Chauvelin felt as if he were choking; his slender
fingers worked nervily around his cravat; beads of perspiration trickled
unheeded down his pallid forehead.

Then suddenly he had an inspiration--nothing less! It almost seemed as
if Satan, his friend, had whispered insinuating words into his ear. That
scrap of paper! He had thrust it awhile ago into the breast pocket of
his coat. It was still there, and the Public Prosecutor wanted a
tangible proof. ... Then, why not. ...?

Slowly, his thoughts still in the process of gradual coordination,
Chauvelin drew that soiled scrap of paper out of his pocket. Fouquier-
Tinville, surly and ill-humoured, had his back half-turned towards him,
was moodily picking at his teeth. Chauvelin had all the leisure which he
required. He smoothed out the creases in the paper and spread it out
carefully upon the desk close to the other man's elbow. Fouquier-
Tinville looked down on it, over his shoulder.

"What is that?" he queried.

"As you see, citizen," was Chauvelin's bland reply. "A message, such as
you yourself have oft received, methinks, from our mutual enemy, the
Scarlet Pimpernel."

But already the Public Prosecutor had seized upon the paper, and of a
truth Chauvelin had no longer cause to complain of his colleague's