"They say, citizen, that you alone in Paris know the whereabouts of the
English milor'--of him who is called the Scarlet Pimpernel...."

"Hush-sh-sh!" said the old man quickly, for just at that moment two men
had gone by, in ragged coats and torn breeches, who had leered at Agnes
and her neat cap and skirt as they passed. Now they had turned the angle
of the street and the old man, too, sank his voice to a whisper.

"I know nothing of any Englishman," he muttered.

"Yes, you do," she rejoined insistently. "When poor Antoine Carre was
somewhere in hiding and threatened with arrest, and his mother dared not
write to him lest her letter be intercepted, she spoke to you about the
English milor', and the English milor' found Antoine Carre and took him
and his mother safely out of France. Mme. Carre is my godmother....I saw
her the very night when she went to meet the English milor' at his
commands. I know all that happened then....I know that you were the
intermediary."

"And if I was," he muttered sullenly as he fiddled with his pen and
paper, "maybe I've had cause to regret it. For a week after that Carre
episode I dared not show my face in the streets of Paris; for nigh on a
fortnight I dared not ply my trade...I have only just ventured again to
set up in business. I am not going to risk my old neck again in a
hurry...."

"It is a matter of life and death," urged Agnes, as once more the tears
rushed to her pleading eyes and the look of misery settled again upon
her face.