The Dark Secret of Josephine

"The little Capet!" Roger gave an angry laugh. "Why, 'tis an age since I even gave the boy a thought. You need count no more on making your fortune out of him. He is dead."

"Dead!" gasped Fouché” "You cannot mean that! You are lying again."

"He is dead, I tell you, and has been so well above a year. It was in that I used you; buying your silence for a worthless partnership that you proposed yourself."

"Then... then I have kept your true identity secret all these months for nothing?"

"A most fitting reward for your double-dealing with your colleagues and your treachery to your country." Red blotches stood out on the white mask of Fouché's face. His pale eyes were starting from his skull-like head, and he looked as if e were about to have a fit. But, when he spoke again, his voice held a quieter, sinister note.

"Now you have been too clever. Yes, too clever, Mister Brook. For this cheap triumph over me you have thrown away your armour. Since I can no longer hope to gain anything by keeping your secret, why should I continue to do so? Before morning I will have you in jail for what you are. You accursed English spy!"

Roger shrugged contemptuously. "Time was when you might have done so had you played your cards with that in mind. But to denounce me so belatedly could profit you nothing. You have given me the time I needed to re-establish myself and dovetail the pieces of my story in the minds of those who would judge between us. My upbringing in England, my coming to Brittany as a youth, my secretaryship to M. de Rochambeau and duel with M. de Caylus, my return to Paris as a journalist for certain English news-sheets, my life as a member of the Paris Commune, and my having become a prisoner of the English after Thermidor: all these things are now strung together as a whole, and so many people could vouch for various parts of the story that all would believe the whole of it. You might as well accuse Barras or Buonaparte; for no one would believe you. Had you even a single witness to support you, matters would be different. But you have not.

It would be your word against mine. Our respective situations being as they are, ask yourself whose would be taken?"

In the face of Roger's cynical assurance, Fouché wilted visibly. Striking his forehead, he gave a bitter cry. "Oh that I had that one witness; or my old power back, even for a single hour!"

"Had you used it less evilly you might never have lost it," Roger retorted swiftly. Then pointing at the Order of Banishment, which still lay on the table, he gave a final turn to the screw before turning to leave the room.

"Try denouncing me if you will. You'll find it will be regarded as the pathetic effort of a man half crazed, endeavouring to revenge himself upon me. because I brought him that."

As he stepped through the doorway, Fouché, goaded beyond endurance, seized an empty bottle on the side table by its neck, swung it aloft and came at him from behind.

But Roger knew his man too well not to have kept a wary eye out for a sudden resort to violence. Swinging round, he sprang back into the hall, whipped out the slender blade from a tall sword-cane that he was carrying, jerked back his elbow, and levelled the point at Fouché's heart.

"Stand back!" Roger's voice was low but menacing. "Drop that bottle or I'll run you through with less compunction than I'd stick one of your pigs."

With a curse, Fouché dropped the bottle. Then, almost weeping with rage, he cried: "To hell with you! I'll get the better of you yet."

Lowering his blade Roger turned away, but flung a parting shot over his shoulder. "You are welcome to attempt it. But you had best be gone from here by tomorrow morning. I mean to send the police to see that you have obeyed Barras's order."

Roger's anger had now cooled. He had, all through, had the best of the encounter. No qualms of conscience troubled turn about having brought Fouché an Order of Banishment instead of the expected post. Neither did he blame Barras for having in this manner deprived FouchS of the power to menace their plans concerning the marriage of Buonaparte and Josephine. On the contrary, he was thoroughly pleased with himself for the way in which he had handled the situation.

His feelings would have been very different had he had the least inkling of the evil trick that Fate was about to play him, and the desperate straits in which he would find himself within a bare half-hour.

chapter XXVII

THE CAT GETS OUT OF THE BAG

A quarter of an hour's drive brought the coach to the far end of the Quai de la Grève where, between the two bridges, a row of decrepit-looking buildings backed on to the river. Even in daylight it was an unsavoury part of the city, as it was adjacent both to the wharfs and to the Faubourg St. Antoine, a great area of slums, from which the most sanguinary mobs had emerged to loot and kill at every crisis during the Revolution. Now, in the late evening, ill-lit and evil smelling, its dark and crooked ways seemed to conceal a menace round every corner.

. But Roger was used to taking care of himself, and his only worry at the moment was that he might not find Madame Remy at home. As the coach rumbled, now at a walk, over the cobbles he peered from its windows, till, by the light of a lantern-lit doorway from behind which there came the muffled sounds of raucous singing, he located the drinking den of which Fouché had spoken.

Halting the coach he got out, told Corporal Peltier and his men that in no circumstances were they to leave it until he called to them, then faced about to take stock of Madame Remy's dwelling. It was quite a tall building but had only two storeys. In the upper one there was a single unusually large window, presumably put in by its late tenant, the artist, to give a good north light. Curtains were drawn across it, but through them came a dull glow, Roger noted it with much satisfaction, as an indication that Madame Remy was probably at home. Walking forward, he rapped sharply on the door of the place with the butt end of his sword-cane.

In reply to his knocking there came the click-clack of footsteps on bare boards, then the door was opened by a woman. As the only particulars of the blackmailer Roger had received were, that she was the sister of a mulatto who had been brought up as a slave in the household of Josephine's father, he had subconsciously expected to find her middle-aged and running to fat, as is the case with nearly all ageing females having negro blood. But the light, although dim, was sufficient for him to see that the woman who had answered the door was tall, shapely and much younger than he expected; so with a shade of doubt in his voice, he asked:

"Are you the Citoyenne Remy?"

"Yes," she replied in a cheerful voice that implied a smile. "You're lucky to find me alone. But come in and we'll have a glass of wine. Then you can tell me who gave you my address."

It was clearly the invitation of a harlot to a stranger, whom she assumed had been sent to her by one of her regulars. With a grim little smile, at the thought that she had no idea of the surprise in store for her, Roger followed her inside and took quick stock of the main room of the dwelling, which had been hidden from the street door by a hanging curtain of coarse material.

Two-thirds of the place had been gutted to form a lofty studio, and it now had two storeys only at its far end. There, a steep, narrow stairway, flush with the partition wall, ran up to a four-foot square landing giving access to a single door, which was presumably that of a bedroom overlooking the river. But, apparently, Madame Remy did not usually conduct her business up there; as, at one side of the studio before a small fire of sea-coal stood a broad couch covered with rugs and cushions. Near it was a table on which two candles, stuck in the necks of empty bottles, were burning. Otherwise, apart from a wicker chair, a battered oak chest, and a cracked mirror above the fireplace, the big apartment was bare of furniture.

Swaying her hips seductively, the woman walked in front of Roger towards the couch. As she did so she must have caught a glimpse of him in the mirror, for she said in a honeyed Creole voice:

"Down in these parts it isn't often that one sees a fine gentleman like you. But I promise you won't repent your visit. A West Indian girl can show most Frenchmen a few things they don't know; and perhaps you are the very one I have been waiting for to set me up in a better place."

As she finished speaking she turned about and dropped him a curtsy. It was when rising from it with a smile that she got her surprise; but not the one that Roger had intended. He got one too. He found himself face to face with Lucette.

Their meeting in Paris was so totally unexpected that neither had recognized the voice of the other, and it was not until they had come into the light of the candles that they had had the chance to discern one another's features. But now it was plain from the expressions on the faces of them both that neither had the least doubt about the other's identity.

"You!" Lucette breathed the word with hatred and alarm. Next second her right hand darted downward through a placket hole in her skirt. In the same movement she stooped. As she came upright her hand emerged grasping an eight-inch long stiletto that she had drawn from die top of her stocking. Her dark eyes flashing she whirled it on high and came at Roger like a tigress.

Without moving from where he stood he thrust up the thick malacca handle of his sword-cane, and parried the slash she made at his neck. Then he hit her hard beneath the chin. With a moan she went down backwards on the couch. Throwing aside his cane, he sprang upon her, seized her wrist and gave it a violent wrench. She uttered a cry of pain. Her fingers relaxed their grip upon the knife, and it fell with a tinkle on to the bare boards. Releasing her he picked it up and stuck it in the top of his jack-boot. Then he dusted his hands together, and said:

"I owed you that. Since you remember me, you may also remember having knocked me down m the cabin of the Circe when I had hardly enough strength in my legs to stand up without assistance."

"Remember you!" she panted, struggling into a sitting position. "Is it likely that I could ever forget you, after the ill you've done me. You are my jinx! Before we met I lived a fine carefree life. Since, everything has gone wrong. It was you who killed de Senlac. It was you who caused the break-up of the fraternity over which I reigned as Queen. I decided to settle down and keep a good, respectable house in St. Pierre. You came there and had me flung into prison."

"You would have had a hanging, had I not had to take flight the day after I had you arrested," Roger put in quickly.

Her face became clouded with a puzzled frown. "What mean you by 'take flight'? You were the Governor there, and they told me you had been recalled to England."

"So I told my staff, but it was not the fact" Roger's brain had been working overtime for the last few minutes. He thought it unlikely that Lucette could do him any serious harm, but that it would nevertheless be prudent to give her some story to account for his presence in Paris. Some adaptation of his stock box-and-cox autobiography was obviously the most plausible line; so, with a not very pleasant little laugh, he went on:

"From the fluency with which I speak French you must have realized that I am half a Frenchman, and although I was brought up in England I am wholly French at heart. I have long served the Republic secretly, and had hoped to strike a great blow for it by enabling Victor Hugues to retake Martinique. But he sent me warning that our plot was on the verge of discovery. I got away while I could, and from England employed a smuggler to run me across to France. What happened to you after I left?"

"With you no longer there, they could bring no evidence of piracy against me," she replied morosely, "but your denunciation caused Colonel Penruddock to treat me most scurvily. He had me charged with keeping a disorderly house and I was sentenced to three months' imprisonment. When I came out I found myself ruined. The pretty mulatto wenches for whom I had paid high prices had vanished; the house slaves had looted my property and run away. Only the house itself was left, and that stripped from cellar to rafters."

"So, for a change, you have learnt what it feels like to be despoiled."

Her eyes gleamed hatred at him. "That I owe to you! And the wretched state to which I am now reduced. By the sale of the house I raised just enough money to get me to France. I had a project here which I have always kept for an emergency; believing that were I ever in need I could count on it to secure me a regular pension. But so far it has not matured. Meanwhile, I have been forced to become a wharf-hands' whore, and either starve or submit to the brutalities of any drunken swine who has a fancy to put me through my paces."

Roger nodded. "Touching this project of yours. It is upon that I have come to see you."

"What!" she cried, springing to her feet. "I thought your visit a chance one: that you had been sent here by one of the maguereaux who find men for me and take a commission on my earnings. Do you mean that you are come to play the jinx again, and rob me of my last chance to enjoy an old age in some comfort. That I must have! I must; for I am no longer young!"

She had been sitting with her back to the candles, but had turned as she sprang up, and her face, now fully lit by them, confirmed her words. From the fact that Josephine was her foster sister, Roger knew that both of them must be well over thirty. The former had kept her looks remarkably well; so had Lucette up till six months ago, but since then her imprisonment and the life she was now leading had caused a swift deterioration to set in. The muscles of her cheeks had gone slack, her complexion had become slightly raddled, there were great hollows under her fine eyes, and the outer corner of the left one was still a little discoloured from a bruise where one of her transitory lovers must have blackened it for her.

Knowing her past, Roger felt no compassion for her, and replied tersely: "Your future means nought to me. I am now an official of the French Government, and have been sent to enquire into your doings. You have been endeavouring to blackmail Madame de Beauharnais, have you not?"

Seeing her hesitate, he added: "Come! I have no time to waste; and I have men outside awaiting my orders. If you refuse to answer my questions I will have them take you off to prison."

"You put a hard interpretation on it," she muttered sullenly. "Marie-Rose Josephine is my foster sister. She owes me much: for it was through being of service to her that I was thrown out of her father's house, and became what I am."

Roger gave a cynical little laugh. "You seem to have forgotten that you told me the whole story yourself, and that there is another side to it. Had it not been for your example in taking a lover she might not have been incited to go to such lengths with William de Kay. But, that apart, it was you who planned and induced her to go through this form of marriage which has since proved the curse of .her life; so she can owe you nothing but the bitterest reproaches."

"I intended it only for her happiness. She should remember that, and that in girlhood we were devoted friends. She is rich, and could well afford to give me the small pension which is all I meant to ask."

"She might have, had that been all, and you had gone to ask it of her yourself. But it was not You meant to bleed her white. For that, to conceal your identity in case she went to the police, you had to have an intermediary, and for the purpose have been using Citizen Fouché"

Fear showed in Lucette's eyes, as she said in a low voice: "So you know about that?"

"There are now only a few minor details that I do not know about this matter; such as why you choose him for your agent."

"It was owing to a man I met soon after landing at Nantes. He told me that Citizen Fouché was a skilful homme d'affaires, and not above sharing any profit to be obtained from a valuable piece of information. My friend gave me a letter of introduction to him."

"I see. Let us proceed to business, then. Be good enough to hand over Madame de Beauharnais's diary."

"I... I have not got it."

"That is a lie. You are much too clever to have passed it on to Fouché. Had you done so, you know well enough he would have had no further truck with you."

"I tell you I have not got it."

"Then that is most unfortunate for you." Roger drew from his pocket the Order of Transportation, opened it held it to the light and told her to read it. Then he said:

"When I came here I had no idea that you were Madame Remy. But I was prepared to make a bargain with her, and I will do so with you. Give me the diary, and agree to leave Paris for good tomorrow morning, and I will have this order suspended. It will be marked 'to be executed only in the event of the person named being found to have returned to the Capital'. Should you refuse, I will call in my men to arrest you, and I snail see to it myself that you start on your journey to Cayenne tomorrow."

"No!" she exclaimed with a violent shake of the head. "I'll not give it up. Send me to Cayenne if you will. I am no flabby European to take a fever and die of it. For once I'd have something for which to thank my black blood. I'll be little worse off there than I am here, and I'm not yet so ill-favoured that I could not seduce one of the guards into aiding my escape."

At her outburst Roger's confidence in his prospects of success suddenly slumped to near zero. It had not occurred to him that for a mulatto prostitute transportation threatened few of the terrors it would have held for an ordinary French woman. All he could do now was to play his subsidiary card; so he said:

"I think you underrate the horrors that you will have to face. I am told that conditions in the convict ships are appalling, and that many people die upon the voyage. Be advised by me and take the easier way. Your refusal, too, may have been influenced by lack of money. If so, I will give you a hundred louis; and that will see you back to the West Indies in comfort."

Again she stubbornly shook her head. "No. I know enough of Voodoo to survive the voyage, and within a month of reaching Cayenne I will have escaped. Then I will join another fraternity of sea-rovers. The diary is safe enough where it is. Later I will return and collect it Having kept it so long, I'll not give it up. It is my life-line to a secure old age.

Roger had already thought of threatening her with prison, but whatever charge was trumped up against her she could not be kept there indefinitely. Then, as he sought desperately in his mind for a way to get the better of her, the expression 'life-line' that she had used gave him a sudden inspiration. Since she was who she was, he still had a forgotten ace up his sleeve.

Refolding the transportation order, he said quietly: "You seem to have overlooked one thing. Piracy is just as much a crime punishable by death in France as it is in England. Unless you produce that diary, I will charge you with it; then the thing you count your life-line will become the rope that works the blade of the guillotine."

At that her jaw fell; then she screamed: "You fiend! You devil!" and came at him with hands rigid like claws in an attempt to tear his eyes out. Thrusting her off, he gave her a swift jab in the stomach, which sent her reeling and gasping for breath back again on to the couch.

Standing over her Roger said firmly: "Now! Do I send you to your death or will you give me the diary?"

Still whimpering, the fight at last gone out of her, she pulled herself to her feet, and slouched across to a door at the far end of the studio under the steep stairway. Roger followed her and, as she opened it could just make out by the faint light that beyond it there lay a kitchen. Going inside she fished about for a moment in its near darkness, and emerged holding a heavy meat chopper.

Alert to the possibility that she meant to attack him with it, Roger watched her warily. But without a glance at him she went up the twenty or more narrow stairs to the small landing; then, using the blunt back of the heavy chopper, she began to hammer with it at the end of one of the many short cross beams that supported the roof of the studio. After half a dozen blows the nails that held the end of the beam to a larger rafter were loosened enough for her to pull it down. It was hollow, and thrusting her hand into the cavity she drew out a small leather-bound book. Then she came down the stairs and handed it to him.

"Thank you," he said. "Allow me to congratulate you on having thought of such a good hiding-place. We might have hunted the house for a month without coming upon it Indeed, I doubt if we would have found it short of pulling the whole building to pieces."

With a shrug, she walked past him, threw the chopper on to the table, and sat down again on the couch. Meanwhile, he flicked over the leaves of the little book to make quite certain that it was the thing that he had gone to so much trouble to obtain. It was a thick book and all but the last dozen of its pages were covered with a round childish scrawl. Soon he came upon the name William repeated three times on the same page, then on a passage that made nun raise his eyebrows. It was, he thought, remarkable how indiscreet young girls could be during the first upsurge of physical passion, in confiding their feelings and experiences to paper. Little wonder Madame de Beau­harnais could not face the thought of her diary falling into the hands of an unscrupulous publisher. There was no law to prevent the printing of such material, however personal; and there were still innumerable books on sale describing, without the least truth, obscenities of the most revolting kind said to have been practised by Marie Antoinette, which had been published while she was a Queen living in splendour at Versailles.

Slipping the book into his pocket, he walked over to Lucette, and said: "Now, about yourself. If you will tell me where you wish to go when you leave Paris tomorrow morning, I will do my best to aid you, and will provide the money for your journey."

"I think I had best return to the Indies," she murmured despondently. "With food to be had for the asking and the warmth of the sunshine, life is at least easier there."

"Very well. I will endeavour to secure you a passage in a blockade runner."

As he spoke, there came an urgent knocking on the front door.

Muttering a filthy oath, she pulled herself to her feet. "I expect that is a customer. I must open to him, but will say that I am engaged."

Roger watched her cross the room, pull aside the coarse curtain and unlatch the door. It was immediately thrust wide. With a cry of surprise, she took a pace back. Slamming the door to behind him, Fouché stepped after her into the room.

Snatching up his sword-cane Roger called out to him: "So you followed me! What do you want here?"

Thrusting his way past Lucette, Fouché advanced to the table, and halted. Glaring across at Roger, he panted: "I had hoped that you might still have to collect the order of transportation you spoke of from Barras, before threatening to execute it. Even had I had the luck to pick up a coach I might have managed to get here a few minutes before you."

"Then you have had your half-hour's walk for nothing," said Roger quietly. "I already had the order: but it will not now be needed."

Fouché's pale eyes switched from Roger's waist-line to Lucette's neck and he said sharply to her: "Then you have told him where the diary is?"

She gave a sullen nod. "He has it, We argued over it for some time, but I surrendered it to him five minutes since."

"You fool! You black, besotted bitch!" he snarled. "Did you not have the sense to realize that had you kept it hidden it might yet have meant big money for us both?"

"For you, perhaps, but not for me!" she cried with sudden defiance. "He has the power to send me to the guillotine, and would have done so had I held out against him. I know this man! He is my enemy; my jinx! Had I not bought my life with the book he would have delighted in bringing about my death."

"You know him?"

Roger felt a sudden awful sinking in the pit of his stomach, but there was nothing he could do to stop Lucette shouting back:

"Know him; do I not! He says now that he is a Frenchman, but I find that hard to credit seeing how first we met. Everyone then believed him to be an English milor. He had an English wife, English friends and was upon an English ship. In Martinique, too, everyone spoke of him as Son Excellence Mister Brook. But I care not what he is. I know only that he would gladly see me dead."

"So!" Fouché" hardly breathed the word. Then, swinging round on Roger, his cry of triumph rang to the rafters. "A witness! The one witness I needed to support my oath! Mort Dieu; you are now no better than carrion in the executioner's cart!"

Left with no time to think or plan for such an emergency, and made desperate by the terrifying turn events had taken, Roger whipped out his sword-cane. Across the table he made a furious lunge at Fouchi; but his enemy sprang back, pivoted on his heels and dashed for the door. Swerving sideways Roger jumped over the couch, but Lucette threw herself m his way. Before he could get past her Fouché" had wrenched the door open and was bellowing into the darkness:

"Corporal Peltier! Bring your men! Citizens! Help! Quick! Come to my aid!"

Still hoping to transfix Fouché with one well directed thrust which would silence him instantly and for ever, Roger leapt after him. Fouché" was standing in the doorway. He was still yelling for help, but from fear of another attack had his head half-turned towards the room. Roger's lunge was aimed high to take him through the throat. Fouché jerked his head back so sharply that it hit the open door a resounding crack. The movement saved him. The flashing point missed his Adam's apple by the fraction of an inch, then buried itself in the wooden door jamb. The thrust had been delivered with tremend­ous force. Under the impact the thin blade snapped. Roger was left holding only the handle and ten inches of the steel. Next moment Peltier and his three men blocked the doorway and came pushing past Fouché into the studio.

Giving way before them, Roger darted back behind the table. He was at his wits' end for a sound course to pursue, and could think of nothing but an attempt to exert his authority. If he could succeed in that it might save him for the moment. He would then at least have a chance of destroying the all-important diary, and perhaps be able to escape from Paris before on a joint information laid by Fouché and Lucette a warrant was issued for his arrest. Pulling the order for Lucette's transportation from his pocket, he waved it in the faces of the advancing soldiers and cried:

"Touch me if you dare! I am the agent of Citizen Director Barras. Here is my warrant Your own officer charged you to obey my orders. They are that you arrest Citizen Fouché and this woman."

Fouché's shouts had attracted several people. As they came running up behind the soldiers he slammed and bolted the door to keep them out. Turning, he hurried back into the centre of the room. His friend the Corporal gave him an anxious look, and asked eagerly:

"What's bin 'appenin', Citizen? I saw 'im attack yer! 'E'd no right ter do that, even if 'e is a police agent What d'yer want us ter do?"

"Ignore his orders and accept mine," replied Fouché promptly. "What I have long believed the Citoyenne Remy here has now con­firmed. He is an English spy."

"Sacre" bleu!’ exclaimed the Corporal. "An English spy! An' 'e's an aristo ter boot or my name's not Jacques Peltier. ‘E 'as both the looks an' the smell o' one."

"You have been told a lie," Roger cut in sharply. "I am neither. This absurd charge is based upon my having been abroad on a secret mission which occupied me for many months after 9th Thermidor. Before that I was a member of the Paris Commune. As a Citizen Commissioner from its founding mere are thousands of people in Paris who can vouch for my identity and my patriotism."

"That's true, that is," nodded a tall guardsman with ginger hair. "I knew 'im by sight before that too, when I were a pot-man in the Jacobin Club. I 'eard 'im speak there against our going to war over the Spanish Treaty."

"Yes," supplemented one of the others, a thick-set man with a swarthy face. ‘I thought I recognized him, and I do now."

"Don't be taken in by that," snapped Fouché "He has acted as one of Pitt's agents from the beginning. For years past he has consistently betrayed us. He is the son of an English Admiral and his name is Brook."

"You lie!" retorted Roger. "This is a plot by which you are attempting to evade arrest."

"It is the truth, as the Citoyenne Remy can confirm."

"I do!" shrilled Lucette, turning to the soldiers. "He is an English milor. I was for a week with him last year in an English ship."

"You are mistaken," said Roger firmly. "I have a cousin named Robert MacElfic who much resembles me. It was him you must have met."

She gave a harsh laugh. "That lie will not serve you. Citizen Fouché is right. You are an Englishman and a spy. I will swear to that with my dying breath."

"You see!" added Fouché triumphantly. "He admits to having English relatives. He admits, too, to having been abroad at the time the Citoyenne Remy says she met him. What more do you require?"

"That's enough for me," growled Peltier, glancing-round at the three guardsmen. "Well men; what der yer say?"

The ginger-haired one looked doubtful, but the swarthy man said: "I'd sooner take Citizen Fouché's word than his," and the third soldier nodded his agreement.

As Roger took in the expressions of suspicion, anger and hatred on the faces of the five people who formed a semi-circle round him, he knew that his situation was desperate. If he once let them haul him off to a police office nothing could then prevent a full enquiry into his past. He had spared no pains to get accepted a history of himself as water-tight as he could make it, but there were some small holes in it, such as his statement that he had been born in Strassburg, which could never be covered up.

He had had, too, as the only means of throwing discredit on Lucette's identification of him, to say that it was his cousin, Robert MacElfic, whom she had met. She knew that for a lie, and it would not be difficult for French authorities to check a statement by her that from January to August a Mr. Roger Brook had been Governor of Martinique, Should he once be caught out on even a few minor matters, under skilful interrogation the whole false edifice he had built up would gradually be torn to pieces. Yet, although he knew that his life depended on it, he could think of no way out of the impasse with which he was faced, except to shout at the soldiers again:

"This is a plot, I tell you! This man and woman are in league together. Both are under sentence, one to banishment and the other to transportation. Don't be fooled by their lies, or you will rue it. I order you to arrest them!"

"Nay!" cried Fouché. "It is him you must arrest; or never again will you be able to call yourselves true patriots."

"Come lads!" Peltier took a step forward. "Let's take 'im ter the police office. They'll 'ave the truth ahrt of 'im, an' by me old mother's grave I vow Citizen Fouché 'as the rights of it."

"Stop!" shouted Roger. "I represent the law. ‘Twill be jail for any one of you who lays a hand upon me."

Seeing that the men still hesitated, Lucette began to scream abuse at them. "Go on, you cowards! You're four to one! What are you afraid of? Take him to the police and see what I will say of him. I'll prove him a liar! Aye, and a thief! He came here to steal and has a book of mine in his pocket."

Like the proverbial 'last straw' the simple charge of theft seemed to weigh down the balance against Roger in the minds of all three guardsmen. It needed only a final cry from Fouché to spur them forward.

"I take responsibility for this! Seize him! Seize him!"

Roger saw then that his last hope of stalling them off by argument or threats had gone. He was faced with the choice of surrender or action. Surrender would mean the certain loss of the diary—for it was a certainty that Fouché would have it off him and disappear with it—and the probable loss of his life. Action might still give him a chance in a thousand. As they closed in on him he seized the table by its edge and overturned it

The two bottles rolled off and, smashed upon the floor. The candles in them continued to flicker for a moment, casting weird shadows. The meat chopper that Lucette had used to smash away the beam also slid off. It fell upon her foot and she gave an 'ouch' of pain. Roger had been standing with his back to the fire. The sea-coal gave out no flame, only a dull glow; so but for the reddish patch it made and the final guttering of the candles the lofty room was now in darkness.

Roger was sorely tempted to make a dash for the door and the street; but on that side his way was barred by Fouché, Peltier and two of the guardsmen. He knew that he would never be able to force a passage through the four of them. On his other side there were only the thick-set swarthy soldier and Lucette. As the table went over he launched himself at the two of them. The flat of his right hand landed full upon the man's chest, thrusting him violently back. But his left hand missed Lucette, as she had stooped to snatch up the meat chopper during the last flicker of candle.

As the light died Roger was already past them and racing towards the steep flight of stairs. Behind him shouts and curses came from the angry, excited group. Suddenly a cloak of blackness descended, hiding them all from one another, and the stairs from him. But he had judged his distance and direction well; his outstretched hand closed upon the rickety banister rail. Swinging himself round its newel-post he took the stairs three at a time, until he reached the small square landing. Frantically he fumbled for the handle to the door up there, but for thirty seconds he could not find it. Those seconds nearly cost him his life.

From the pounding of his footsteps, all his enemies knew which way he had gone. In a yelling pack, bumping against each other in the darkness as they ran, they headed for the stairs. Lucette, being better acquainted with the geography of the place than the others, reached them first Chopper in hand she sprang up them almost on Roger's heels. He heard the patter of her feet while he was striving to find the handle of the door, but knowing that if he could not get the door open he would be done, he took the risk of continuing to fumble for it. At last his hand closed upon it and, with a swift turn of the wrist he flung the door wide; she reached the landing at that moment, coming full tilt upon him.

The door gave on to a low-ceilinged room with two square, uncur­tained windows. During the past twenty minutes the moon had risen. Its pale light made the two windows silver squares, and enough cold luminance radiated from them to transform the darkness of the landing into a pale greyness. Roger and Lucette could still not make out one another's features, but the silhouette of each was plain to the other. He saw that she had the chopper already raised to cleave his skull. Ducking his head aside as the blow descended, he thrust both his hands out against her body. In the confined space of the little landing they were so close together that the push he gave her had the force of a blow. As a result of it she staggered back. Next second there came the creak of rending wood. The flimsy banister rail gave behind her. With a high-pitched scream she fell backwards, to land with a thump on the floor below.

Having saved himself from her gave Roger only a moment's respite. The swarthy soldier had been next after her up the stairs. As she went through the banisters he was only two steps below the level of the landing; but he was a short man, so the top of his head was as yet no higher than Roger's chest. He made an upward thrust with a pike he was carrying. Roger was just in time to avoid it. Bringing up his right foot he kicked his new attacker under the chin. The man's head snapped back, his eyes started from their sockets. Without a sound he collapsed, and rolled down the stairs, carrying with him the men who were behind.

Groans, curses, shouts again filled the air; but Roger had won for himself a short breathing space. Slipping through the door, he swung it to behind him. To his relief, he found that it had a good strong bolt; but the wood of which the door was made was poor stuff, and he judged that it could not be expected to resist a heavy battering for long. Having shot the bolt he gave one glance round the room and saw that it was empty.

There was not a stick of furniture in it. But that did not concern him. He knew that an arm of the Seine lay at the back of the building. From the window to the river might mean a thirty-foot drop, but he had taken many a worse risk than that in his life, and he was a strong swimmer. Full of new hope that he had as good as saved himself, he ran across the bare boards to one of the windows. Through it could be seen hundreds of twinkling lights in the buildings on the Isle of St. Louis, but as he reached it his pounding heart stopped dead for a second. He could have wept with disappointment. It was barred.

He had barely made this shattering discovery when the sound of heavy blows came from the door. Panting for breath, he ran to the other window. That was barred too. Evidently the room had at one time been used as a prison, or, more probably, a nursery. Pulling up the sash of the window at which he stood, he peered out. Immediately below the water gurgled faintly against the foundations of the building, and the moonlight glinted on the ripples. It was a straight drop if only he could get through the window. The bars were quite thin but strong, as he found on grasping one of them. Exerting all his strength, he endeavoured to wrench it from its sockets. It bent, but all his efforts failed to loosen its ends where they were fixed into the frame of the window. He tried the one above it. That, too, bent, but its ends were equally firmly fixed. Straining on each of them in turn, he tried to bend the centre or the upper one up and the centre of the lower one down until the oval space between them should be wide enough for him to squeeze his head and body through it. But he soon realized that the bars were set too close together for that to be possible.

Meanwhile, blow after blow resounded on the door. The bolt and hinges held, out the upper panels began to splinter. One of the men out mere had found the chopper Lucette had dropped and was hacking at them with it; another was battering at them with a musket butt. Desperately, Roger's eyes roved round the moonlit room seeking for something he could use to prise the end of one of the bars from its socket. Floor, walls, and rafters were bare, but at one side of the room there was a narrow chimney piece and small grate. Running to it he strove to wrench the grate out in the hope that he might smash the bars loose with it. Again he met with disappointment; it was built into the fireplace.

The upper part of the door was now smashed in. Beyond it, a suggestion of yellow light showed that when removing the man whom Roger had kicked under the chin, his comrades had found and relit the candles down in the studio. As Roger stared apprehensively at the great jagged hole in the door the muzzle of a musket was thrust through it, and Peltier's hoarse voice ordered him to stand back. He retreated to the partly-open window. Alongside the musket appeared an arm, then the head of the ginger-haired soldier. Leaning through the opening he found the bolt and drew it back. The wrecked door, now loose on its hinges, was forced open. Peltier and his two remaining men came clumping into the room, followed by Fouchg.

"Nah we got 'im!" the Corporal, still wheezing from his exertions against the door, gasped exultantly. "An' I'm fer makin' short work of 'im. 'E's near killed one of our chaps; an' we didn't stand fer that from aristos in the good days."

Real fear suddenly gripped Roger's heart. Peltier's harsh voice held a ring that recalled to him some of the worst scenes that he had been compelled to witness during the Terror. Its fierce, breathless note was that of the born sans-culotte wrought up to fever pitch by a man hunt; and lusting for blood.

"What d'yer say, Citizen?" Peltier looked eagerly across at Fouché. "Shall I put a bullet in 'im?"

Roger's glance, too, switched to Fouché. In the lean corpse-like face, now more pallid than ever in the moonlight, there was no trace of mercy; only apparent indifference. He meant to take no responsibility for the deed, but would be glad to see it done. To the Corporal's question he returned only a faint smile and a just perceptible shrug of le shoulders.

That was enough for Peltier. With deliberate care he cocked his musket.

"Stop him!" shouted Roger. "Stop him." But Fouché made no move to do so, and the two guardsmen stood looking on as though hypnotized.

Roger had dropped the broken haft of his sword-cane a second before he had grasped and overturned the table, but it suddenly flashed into his mind that he still had Lucette's stiletto stuck in the top of his jack-boot. Stooping, as Peltier raised his musket to take aim, he whipped the long thin dagger out. He was no practised knife thrower, but he hurled it with all his force at the Corporal's head.

In its swift flight the weight of the stiletto's hilt caused it to turn over one and a half times. Too late Peltier attempted to duck it. He was handicapped by having his musket held up against his bristly chin. And luck aided Roger's aim. The blunt-pointed hilt of the dagger struck him full in the left eye, smashing it to a pulp.

With a screech of agony he dropped his musket. It went off with a shattering bang. Its bullet thudded harmlessly into the peeling plaster of the wall. Through the acrid smoke of the discharge Roger saw the Corporal clap his hands to his bleeding face and stagger back. Next moment he lurched and sank, a whimpering, gibbering bundle against the smashed door.

Fouché's face fell, showing his disappointment that the blood lust of the ex sans-culotte had not, once and for all, made an end of Roger for him. But he still had complete control of the situation. Turning swiftly to the nearer of the two guardsmen he asked:

"Is your musket loaded and primed?"

"Yes, Citizen," came the quick reply. "I saw to it after we had carried our injured comrade out to the coach."

"Then give it to me." Fouché took the weapon as he spoke, and added: "Now pick up the Corporal's musket. Both of you; get him downstairs and out to the coach with the other man. You are then to return and guard the front door. Should the Englishman get past me and endeavour to escape, you are to shoot him on sight."

With a muttered acknowledgment of the order, the nearest man picked up the musket; then together they took the moaning Corporal by the arms, pulled him to his feet, and half-led, half-dragged him to the stairs. As they struggled down with him, Fouché, now holding the musket at the ready, said to Roger in a voice that was all the more menacing from its complete lack of emotion:

"I would have preferred to have seen you shot, rather than shoot you. It seems though that I am left with no option but to put a bullet into you myself."

Seized anew with fear of the fate he thought he had just escaped, Roger cried: "You'll have to answer for it if you do."

"Oh no! You are quite wrong about that." A mocking smile twitched at Fouché's pale lips. "Had I killed you in my house I might have had some explaining to do; but that does not apply here. There has been a melee. Two of the Directory's Guard have been seriously injured. One musket has been fired already, another might easily go off in a moment of excitement. You are an English spy. After being arrested, you attempted to escape. What could be more simple. And think of the trouble it will save me."

A cold sweat had broken out on Roger's forehead. His hands were clenched so that the nails bit into his palms. Fouché's voice came again. Raising the musket to breast level he asked with cynical politeness:

"Would you prefer that I should shoot you through the head, or through the heart?"

He was standing against the opposite wall, ten paces away from Roger. Any attempt to rush him would have been hopeless. But Roger's wits were working overtime, and he still had a dice in the box that gave him a sporting chance. Pulling Josephine's diary from his pocket, and clutching it tightly, he thrust his arm out of the open window behind him. Then he said:

"Shoot me if you will, but I can't believe that you are quite such a fool. As I drop to the floor the diary will drop into the river and be lost forever. Downstairs, a few minutes back, you were cursing Madame Remy for having surrendered it to me. You said that had she kept it hidden it might yet have meant big money for you both; and I know what you were thinking. It was that being a mulatto she would survive transportation; and that with her and yourself both put out of the way on the orders of Barras, Madame de Beau­harnais would believe herself safe to marry her General. And you were right. Barras is anxious for the match to take place; so he will not undeceive her. Neither will I. That must be obvious to you from the fact that I have been working to bring the marriage about. If, then, you still have the diary, you have only to be patient The marriage will take place. Later you can inform General Buonaparte of the diary's contents and threaten him with its publication. To prevent that he will pay you practically anything you like to ask."

Roger felt sure that Fouché's mind must have been working more or less on those lines. But would he take the gamble? The diary was worth nothing to him unless Josephine would marry Buonaparte without first getting it back so that she could destroy it. Would he bank on her accepting Barras's assurance that she had nothing more to fear? It was at least a tempting bet, although Roger felt certain that she would not so, should the gamble be taken, he too would have to gamble on, somehow or other, getting the diary back. If he failed in that it meant the complete wreck of his plans. But making the offer was his only chance of saving his life; and as he watched Fouche's face he knew that his life hung by a hair.

Greed was one of the most potent characteristics of Fouché's mentality—and greed won. His eyes shifted uncertainly for a moment, then he asked:

"On what terms will you give me the diary?"

Roger breathed again. "My life and freedom."

"Your life, yes; but your freedom, no. If you are clever enough to wriggle out of the charges that the Citoyenne Remy and I can bring against you, well and good. That chance I will give you in exchange for a chance that I may yet make something out of the diary, but no more."

"For that, then, you offer me only what may amount to a brief respite. That is not good enough."

"I'll go no further. Give me the book and we'll take you to the police office. Refuse and I'll kill you where you stand."

Roger decided that Fouché meant what he said. It was a bitter pill to have to give up the diary, for so much hung upon it. But there was no other way in which he could buy his life.

"Very well," he nodded. "Unload your musket and throw the cartridge on the floor."

As Fouché hesitated, he added: "Come; I'm not such a fool as to risk your shooting me after you have obtained the book. You will still have the weapon to use as a club. I am unarmed and even if I attacked you your shouts would soon bring the two soldiers up from the front door to your help."

"If I unload will you come quietly to the police office?"

"What faith would you put in my word if I gave it to you? That is a risk you must take. As I have just said, you have two armed men whom you can call on to escort me."

Without further argument Fouché unloaded the musket, and threw down the cartridge. Roger drew his arm in from the open window, walked over to him, and handed him the precious diary. Instead of moving towards the door, Roger said: "You will be good enough to go first, I have no mind to be struck down with the butt end of your musket as I descend the stairs."

With a pale smile, Fouché replied: "In that I will oblige you. But being of an equally suspicious disposition I have no mind to have you leap on me from behind; so you will be good enough to remain up on the landing until I have reached the bottom step."

Roger gave a quick nod, and halted in the doorway while Fouché walked on down the narrow staircase. At its bottom he took two paces forward, then stopped, looking down at something that was hidden from Roger's view. Roger followed, and as he rounded the corner of the newel-post his glance fell on the thing at which Fouché was staring. It was the body of Lucette.

She lay there where she had fallen, her neck grotesquely twisted, and obviously dead. There came into Roger's mind the prophecy of which she had told him some fourteen months before. That she could not be killed by bullet, by steel or by rope, but only by a fall from a high place.

After they had stared at her body for a few moments they raised their eyes. For once Fouché's shifty glance met Roger's. Both knew that the other had realized the implications of her death. Fouché had lost his all-important witness, and Roger could swear now without fear- of further contradiction from her that when she had denounced him in front of the soldiers, she had mistaken him for the mythical Robert MacElfic.

For as long as it takes to draw a deep breath, Roger was seized with wild elation. It seemed that this sudden turn of fortune's wheel had placed him out of danger. Then, like a douche of ice cold water, the facts of the case arranged themselves in his mind in their true perspective. Fate had robbed Fouché of his Ace of Trumps, but he still held the next best cards in the pack—the diary and two armed men who, so far, had accepted his orders.

Within an instant of grasping that, Roger saw the new sequence. Lucette, by losing her life, had brought him again into immediate peril. Now, his one chance of saving himself and the situation lay in a swift attempt to exploit the setback that his enemy had suffered. With a great effort he forced his voice to assume the ring of triumph, and cried:

"The game is mine, Fouché! Give me back that diary."

"No!" Fouché exclaimed. "I'll see you in hell first!"

"If you refuse I'll call in those two men to take it from you."

Surprise robbed Fouché of the power of speech for a second, then he burst out: "It is I who will call them in! I mean to have them shoot you while I have the chance."

That was exactly the development Roger had feared. Knowing that his sole protection from the threat lay in giving the impression that he was now master of the situation, he even managed a laugh before he said:

"Do not deceive yourself. They might have shot me in cold blood while Corporal Peltier was still with them to give them a lead; but they will not risk their necks by committing murder at your order now. They'll go no further than to escort me to the police officer; and, if you wish, I will go quietly with them. You know why, do you not?"

Fouché's eyes flickered from side to side. "You think that now Madame Remy is dead, you have nothing to fear from me. But you are mistaken.

"I meant only that there is nothing with which the two soldiers can charge me except having injured two of their comrades who refused to obey my lawful orders. If you wish any other charge to be made you must come with us and make it yourself."

"And I will!" Fouché snarled. "Even without support for my word, my denunciation of you as an English spy is certain to result in a full enquiry. Many things may emerge from it. Little things that you have forgotten. I am convinced that, with a little luck, I could yet see you convicted."

Roger's muscles tensed spasmodically. He was only too well aware of the dangers inherent in a full investigation of his past. But in the candle light his face was still a smiling mask, and he shrugged his shoulders.

"We have argued this before. If it comes to your word against mine there can be little doubt that mine will be accepted. Besides, has it not occurred to you that if you once enter the police office with me, you will leave it under arrest and on your way to prison?"

"Your threat is an empty one. There is no crime of which you can accuse me. The night is young. I am aware that I shall be subject to arrest should I not leave the city tomorrow; but there are many hours to go yet. Ample to first settle your business."

The edge of a folded paper protruded from Fouché's pocket. To it a few fragments of wax from a broken seal still clung. As Roger's eye lit on it he felt sure it was the order of banishment. With a sardonic laugh he pointed at it and cried:

"Can it be, then, that you have already forgotten the terms of the order I served on you less than an hour ago?"

"They can have no bearing on what I choose to do tonight," Fouché declared harshly. "They do not come into operation until tomorrow morning."

"There is one that does." Roger's voice was mocking now. "It is to the effect that should you communicate with certain persons, including Madame Remy. the order would be changed from banishment to transportation. You have contravened that clause. The men outside and myself are witnesses to your having done so. You have made yourself liable to be sent to Cayenne."

Suddenly Fouché wilted. His eyes fell and he thrust out his hands as though to ward off some horror. Roger knew then that he had him at his mercy and rapped out an ultimatum.

"I am agreeable to hold my tongue. But only at a price. Unless you wish to give me the pleasure of seeing you shackled to some other felon in the hold of a convict ship outward bound, you will hand me that diary and be out of Paris before dawn."

EPILOGUE

"And then, Roger?"

Georgina's lovely face was flushed with excitement. It was late at night, and she was wearing a loose chamber robe of red velvet that set off her rich dark beauty to perfection. Her feet were curled under her as she lay snuggled against Roger on the big sofa in her boudoir. Shaded candles and a bright wood fire lit the room with a soft, rosy glow. Nearby on a small table a champagne bottle stood in an ice bucket. Beside it there were the remains of supper, and still half a dish of early strawberries from the hothouses tended by some of the forty gardeners that she kept at Stillwaters. It was mid-April and Roger had returned from France only the day before. For the past two hours he had been telling her about the new Paris that had emerged from the Terror, and of his last mission.

"There is little more to tell," he replied with a smile. "Once Fouché had accepted my contention that the two soldiers would not obey an order from him to shoot me in cold blood, I had him at my mercy. He gave me the diary, then we went out and he told the soldiers in front of me that it had all been a terrible mistake; that he had been misled by Lucette, and was now fully satisfied that I was not an English spy after all.

"I took the diary to Josephine that night the 5th of March; then told Barras that I had freed her from her blackmailer for good. Next day Buonaparte's commission as Commander-in-Chief of the Army of Italy was signed by the Directors. On the 9th, he and Josephine were quietly married. After a honeymoon of only two days he left for Nice to take up his command, and with him, as one of his ADC's, he took young Eugene de Beauharnais."

"Then you saved us from invasion."

"I would not say that. Many things might have conspired to decide the Directors against risking the attempt, and even if fear of Buonaparte had forced them to let nun try his luck, he might well have been defeated by the Channel and the Fleet before he landed. It can be said, though, that I nipped the project in the bud. And to be forewarned is to be forearmed. This morning, after I had made my report to Mr. Pitt, he said that he should at once make enquiries into what further safe­guards could be taken; such as raising additional regiments of militia and, perhaps, having strong watchtowers which would also serve as forts built every few miles along the south coast."

"Surely such measures are not necessary, now that the threat is past?"

"These things take time; and that, I think, is what I have bought. Though I am far from certain that I have not paid too big a price for it, by aiding Buonaparte to be given his command in Italy. There are many rich cities in the north of the peninsula, and I know that he regards it as the treasure chest of Europe. The Revolutionary Government has no scruples about property rights, or the beggaring of the territories it conquers by the imposition of taxes, fines, requisi­tions and indemnities. Should Buonaparte's campaign be successful, as it seems likely to be from the reports that are already coming in, he will be in a position to send enormous sums back to Paris, and by refilling France s empty exchequer enable her to prolong the war. If that proves the case, we may yet have to face an invasion here on Buonaparte's return from Italy."

"I think you too pessimistic, Roger dear. But were you right, thanks to you, we will at least be better prepared to resist it And of one thing I am certain. In this dilemma you did the best that could at the moment be done for your own country."

"I only hope it will prove so in the long run too," he said, taking his arm from about her to stand up and refill their glasses with champagne. "We'll drink to that anyway."

When they had settled down again, she said: "And what of Fouché. Do you know what happened to him?"

"I have no idea. He had to leave Paris, of course; but he took with him enough money to buy himself a cottage and a smallholding; so he is probably cleaning out pigsties still, but somewhere in the country." 'I thought you said he was near destitute." "Well, er ..." Roger hesitated. "As a matter of fact, he was. But I gave him the hundred louis that I had brought with me in case I had to finance the so-called Madame Remy to get her out of the way.'

"You gave him a hundred louis exclaimed Georgina, starting up. "Roger, you must be out of your mind!"

He laughed, and pulled her back into the embrace of his arm. "Perhaps I am. On the Continent they regard all us English as mad; yet I think there is something to be said for our way of doing things. I've never yet given an enemy quarter as long as he has had the power to harm me; but the poor devil was down and out." "Perhaps. Yet you have just said of him yourself that you think him the most despicable, treacherous villain you have ever come upon. What can have possessed you to give money to such a man?"

"Well, for one thing, I would never have got the name and address of Josephine's blackmailer had he. not trusted me with them on the understanding that he was to receive some reward; and, on considera­tion, I felt that Barras had played him a scurvy trick. For another, there is just one human spark in his otherwise distorted mind. He loves that ugly wife of his and their child with a genuine devotion. One can tell it from the way he speaks of them, and worries for her about the hard life she has had to lead during this past year. Then, and then only, there comes into his voice a note of sincerity which is unmistakable. It may be foolish of me, but I would not have them starve."

"Oh Roger, my sweet!" There were tears in Georgina's eyes as she. turned and kissed him on the. cheek. "What a dear sentimentalist you are."

"Nay," he laughed. "Put it down rather to hard business sense. For all his villainies Fouché has a magnificent brain. He'll not spend all his life tending pigs. Sooner or later he'll find a way to reclimb fortune's ladder, and maybe he and I will meet again." Roger spoke half in jest but, even so, he was far from underestimating his enemy's capabilities; for, nineteen years later when, after Waterloo, the Emperor Napoleon left Paris for the last time, it was in obedience to an order signed by Joseph Fouché.

"Tell me," Georgina asked after a moment, "why did you linger in France for near six weeks after having completed this great coup?"

"I judged it sound policy further to strengthen my position there before returning home. You will recall that to account for my last departure from Paris I told people that I was going to the South of France for my health, and, on my return, that I had bought a property near Frejus. The day Buonaparte left Paris I went south too, and now I have actually done so. Since the Revolution, good houses at any distance from large towns can be bought for a song; and this is a pleasant place, half farm, half chateau, with a fine view over a bay in which there is a hamlet called St. Raphael. Few places could be more delightful in the winter months, and it is my fond hope that when peace does come again you will be my first guest there."

"What an enchanting prospect. How I wish we could go there now. But from what you say there-seems little hope of peace for some while yet"

"I fear not; much as both France and Britain need it and Mr. Pitt desires it. However, in the meantime I shall go down to my new property occasionally, and so have even better cover for disappearing from Paris for a while when it is necessary for me to come to England."

"You mean then to continue your secret work for Mr. Pitt?"

He smiled. "Yes. The first time I tried settling down, after I married Amanda, fond as I was of her, before two years were up I found such a life too dull. The second time, when we all sailed to the Indies, I found it far too strenuous. Paris has become a sink of iniquity, but at least people there now wash themselves again; and if I were caught out, I hardly think Barras would have me dangled over a pool full of hungry crocodiles. The risk I run is a fair one, and it adds a spice to life; so I've no mind to play again at becoming a respectable house­holder."

Georgina sighed. "Poor Clarissa! Despite her lack of fortune, I thought there might be some hope for her."

Suppressing a start, Roger asked in as casual a voice as he could manage: "Whatever put that idea into your head?"

"You dear fool!" Georgina laughed. "Have you no eyes in yours? Why, the girl dotes on you. Anyone could see that. What a pity it is that she has no fortune; for she is the most lovely creature and would make a most excellent wife for you."

"Yes. She is lovely enough, and has spirit too. As for money, I am, thank God, now worth near thirty thousand pounds; so I have no need to worry on that score. But, as I've told you, I have no intention of marrying again."

"You must, Roger. You have your little girl to think of. In fairness to her you must find her a mother."

"Oh come! What of yourself, then? According to that argument, it is equally your duty to find that jolly fat lump of a godson of mine a father."

"I suppose I must, some day. But not yet. In his case there is ample time. It is while young that children need a woman's love and care. Your little Susan shall have mine, you know, and may share Charles's nursery for as long as you wish. But it would be better for her to be brought up in a home of her own, in which her father would be more than an always welcome visitor. Please, Roger, if lack of money is no objection, think about Clarissa."

For a moment he was silent, then he laughed. "Do you remember what happened last time we discussed match-making?"

Georgina laughed too. "Yes. We made a pact that you should marry Amanda and I should marry my Earl. Then we slept together."

He made a comical grimace. "I fear that if that were generally known most people would consider us very bad lots."

"Yet we are not, Roger; for we are bound to one another by some­thing stronger than any marriage tie. Together, too, we have the blessed power to enjoy a thing that is very rare. With our love there has always been laughter, because we are not tied by any thought of what must come after. We are like two butterflies meeting on a summer day, rejoicing in the fine form and colouring that the kind gods have given us, and playing together without a care."

"You are right, my sweet," he said softly. "And our meetings so have been all too seldom since the winter of '88.1 think that the months' I spent with you then were the happiest in all my life. It was tragic that our happiness should have been cut short by that terrible business following Humphrey's unexpected arrival here."

"That was not the cause of our parting. We had already had our only quarrel; though I had begged you to stay on at Stillwaters and love me through the spring."

"True, but we made our quarrel up; and I should have stayed on had not fate intervened."

For a little they were silent, then she asked: "Have you to return to Paris soon?"

He shook his head. "No; until the political situation shows some sign of change, there is nought of use that I can do there."

Georgina turned her face up to his. Her red lips were moist and her eyes shining. "We are together once more at Stillwaters, Roger," she whispered. 'And it is only April."

His blue eyes smiled down into her black ones, and he whispered back: "How blessed we are that the gods should give us again the chance of which they once robbed us. I can think of nothing nearer heaven than to stay on here and love you through the spring."

The End

The four volumes in the Roger Brook Saga are:

THE LAUNCHING OF ROGER BROOK

which records Mr. Brook's adventures in France from July 1783 to November 1787.

THE SHADOW OF TYBURN TREE

which records his missions to the courts of Denmark, Sweden and Catherine the Great of Russia, between November 1787 and April 1789.

THE RISING STORM

which records his missions to France, Italy and Spain between April 1789 and June 1792.

THE MAN WHO KILLED THE KING

which records his missions to France during the Great Terror of 1793 and '94, and brings his adventures up to the opening of THE DARK SECRET OF JOSEPHINE (August 1794).