indifference. That doggerel rhyme, no less than the signature, had the
power to rouse Fouquier-Tinville's ire, as it had that of disturbing
Chauvelin's well-studied calm.

"What is it?" reiterated the Public Prosecutor, white now to the lips.

"I have told you, citizen," rejoined Chauvelin imperturbably. 'A message
from that English spy. It is also the proof which you have demanded of
me--the tangible proof that the prisoner, Paul Mole, is none other than
the Scarlet Pimpernel."

"But," ejaculated the other hoarsely, "where did you get this?"

"It was found in the cell which Paul Mole occupied in the depot of the
Rue de Tourraine, where he was first incarcerated. I picked it up there
after he was removed ... the ink was scarcely dry upon it."

The lie came quite glibly to Chauvelin's tongue. Was not every method
good, every device allowable, which would lead to so glorious an end?

"Why did you not tell me of this before?" queried Fouquier-Tinville,
with a sudden gleam of suspicion in his deep-set eyes.

"You had not asked me for a tangible proof before," replied Chauvelin
blandly. "I myself was so firmly convinced of what I averred that I had
well-nigh forgotten the existence of this damning scrap of paper."

Damning indeed! Fouquier-Tinville had seen such scraps of paper before.
He had learnt the doggerel rhyme by heart, even though the English
tongue was quite unfamiliar to him. He loathed the English--the entire