˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ Part three. “You are to read these instructions and commit them to memory,” said Sir Andrew, “then destroy them.” He was about to replace the letter-case into his pocket, when a tiny slip of paper fluttered from it and fell on to the floor. Lord Antony stooped and picked it up. “What’s that?” he asked. “I don’t know,” replied Sir Andrew. “It dropped out of your pocket just now. It certainly did not seem to be with the other paper.” “Strange!—I wonder when it got there? It is from the chief,” he added, glancing at the paper. Both stooped to try and decipher this last tiny scrap of paper on which a few words had been hastily scrawled, when suddenly a slight noise attracted their attention, which seemed to come from the passage beyond. “What’s that?” said both instinctively. Lord Antony crossed the room towards the door, which he threw open quickly and suddenly; at that very moment he received a stunning blow between the eyes, which threw him back violently into the room. Simultaneously the crouching, snake-like figure in the gloom had jumped up and hurled itself from behind upon the unsuspecting Sir Andrew, felling him to the ground. All this occurred within the short space of two or three seconds, and before either Lord Antony or Sir Andrew had time or chance to utter a cry or to make the faintest struggle. They were each seized by two men, a muffler was quickly tied round the mouth of each, and they were pinioned to one another back to back, their arms, hands, and legs securely fastened. One man had in the meanwhile quietly shut the door; he wore a mask and now stood motionless while the others completed their work. “All safe, citoyen!” said one of the men, as he took a final survey of the bonds which secured the two young men. “Good!” replied the man at the door; “now search their pockets and give me all the papers you find.” This was promptly and quietly done. The masked man having taken possession of all the papers, listened for a moment or two if there were any sound within “The Fisherman’s Rest.” Evidently satisfied that this dastardly outrage had remained unheard, he once more opened the door and pointed peremptorily down the passage. The four men lifted Sir Andrew and Lord Antony from the ground, and as quietly, as noiselessly as they had come, they bore the two pinioned young gallants out of the inn and along the Dover Road into the gloom beyond. In the coffee-room the masked leader of this daring attempt was quickly glancing through the stolen papers. “Not a bad day’s work on the whole,” he muttered, as he quietly took off his mask, and his pale, fox-like eyes glittered in the red glow of the fire. “Not a bad day’s work.”
He opened one or two more letters from Sir Andrew Ffoulkes’ pocket-book, noted the tiny scrap of paper which the two young men had only just had time to read; but one letter specially, signed Armand St. Just, seemed to give him strange satisfaction. “Armand St. Just a traitor after all,” he murmured. “Now, fair Marguerite Blakeney,” he added viciously between his clenched teeth, “I think that you will help me to find the Scarlet Pimpernel.” ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ In the Opera Box It was one of the gala nights at Covent Garden Theatre, the first of the autumn season in this memorable year of grace 1792. The house was packed, both in the smart orchestra boxes and the pit, as well as in the more plebeian balconies and galleries above. Glück’s Orpheus made a strong appeal to the more intellectual portions of the house, whilst the fashionable women, the gaily-dressed and brilliant throng, spoke to the eye of those who cared but little for this “latest importation from Germany.” Selina Storace had been duly applauded after her grand aria by her numerous admirers; Benjamin Incledon, the acknowledged favourite of the ladies, had received special gracious recognition from the royal box; and now the curtain came down after the glorious finale to the second act, and the audience, which had hung spell-bound on the magic strains of the great maestro, seemed collectively to breathe a long sigh of satisfaction, previous to letting loose its hundreds of waggish and frivolous tongues. In the smart orchestra boxes many well-known faces were to be seen. Mr. Pitt, overweighted with cares of state, was finding brief relaxation in to-night’s musical treat; the Prince of Wales, jovial, rotund, somewhat coarse and commonplace in appearance, moved about from box to box, spending brief quarters of an hour with those of his more intimate friends. In Lord Grenville’s box, too, a curious, interesting personality attracted everyone’s attention; a thin, small figure with shrewd, sarcastic face and deep-set eyes, attentive to the music, keenly critical of the audience, dressed in immaculate black, with dark hair free from any powder. Lord Grenville—Foreign Secretary of State—paid him marked, though frigid deference. Here and there, dotted about among distinctly English types of beauty, one or two foreign faces stood out in marked contrast: the haughty aristocratic cast of countenance of the many French royalist émigrés who, persecuted by the relentless, revolutionary faction of their country, had found a peaceful refuge in England. On these faces sorrow and care were deeply writ; the women especially paid but little heed, either to the music or to the brilliant audience; no doubt their thoughts were far away with husband, brother, son maybe, still in peril, or lately succumbed to a cruel fate.
