When Chauvelin paused he too stood still, not because of the grip on his arm, but because of that curious numbing of his will.
Vague, confused thoughts were floating through his brain, the most dominant one among them being that Fate had effectually ordained everything for the best.

Here was Chauvelin, a man who hated him, who, of course, would wish to see him dead.

Well, surely it must be an easier matter now to barter his own life for that of Jeanne; she had only been arrested on suspicion of harbouring him, who was a known traitor to the Republic; then, with his capture and speedy death, her supposed guilt would, he hoped, be forgiven.

These people could have no ill-will against her, and actors and actresses were always leniently dealt with when possible.

Then surely, surely, he could serve Jeanne best by his own arrest and condemnation, than by working to rescue her from prison.
In the meanwhile Chauvelin shook the damp from off his cloak, talking all the time in his own peculiar, gently ironical manner.
"Lady Blakeney ?" he was saying--"I hope that she is well!" "I thank you, sir," murmured Armand mechanically.
"And my dear friend, Sir Percy Blakeney?
I had hoped to meet him in Paris.