"Where are we?"

"In a cell of the old monastery which once stood hard by the Rue Charonne, which has served as a cellar at some time, but now for a long while has been forgotten. Citizen Latour would have been here with mademoiselle to meet you, but the mob in the neighborhood will keep them away to-night. You must wait here, monsieur, it may be for some days."

"Mademoiselle is safe?"

"Quite safe in the care of Deputy Latour. I had the honor of helping him to bring her out of the Abbaye prison."

"And what are Citizen Latour's plans for getting her out of Paris?"

"He is making them, but they change from day to day as the circ.u.mstances change. At the first opportunity he will come to you."

"I must wait with what patience I can," said Barrington.

"And remain as quiet as you can," said Sabatier. "The crowd will be hunting for you for some time, and a noise might attract them."

"I shall not court death; I have a good deal to live for," said Barrington.

"Then, monsieur, I will leave you. Citizen Latour will be distressed until he knows you are safe."

Richard Barrington's patience was destined to be sufficiently tried. It was a poor, miserable caricature of daylight which found its way through the barred grating, and for three days Sabatier visited him every morning with the same news that the crowds parading the Rue Charonne made it impossible for Latour to come.

"Is it necessary to lock me in?" Barrington asked.

"It is not to prevent your going out, monsieur, but to insure that your enemies do not come in."

"I feel like a prisoner."

"Better that than falling into the hands of the mob."

On the fourth day Sabatier brought a message from Latour. Barrington's servant Seth had been to him inquiring about his master. Naturally, perhaps, he was not inclined to believe Latour's word that he was safe, and unless he had some definite proof might ruin everything by making inquiries in other directions.

"Will you write a letter to your servant, monsieur, telling him to wait until he has further instructions from you?"

"Might he not come to me here?"

"For the present that would be too dangerous," Sabatier answered. "I come and go, monsieur, because I was bred in this quarter of the city.

The mob claims me as a part of it, and truly I am, except in this business. I began by simply obeying Citizen Latour, for my own benefit, I make no secret of it; now I am also interested in Monsieur Barrington."

The letter to Seth was written and given to Sabatier to deliver. Two more weary days of waiting pa.s.sed, and then late one afternoon Raymond Latour came.

Barrington welcomed him, both hands held out to him.

"It was bravely done," he exclaimed. "You must have run great risk in getting her from the Abbaye prison."

"Yes, great risk. I have come to talk to you about it."

Latour ignored the outstretched hands. He stood in front of Barrington with folded arms. There was something amiss.

"What has happened?" Barrington asked.

"The usual thing when an honest man trusts a liar; the honest man has been deceived."

"You speak of--"

"Of one Richard Barrington, a liar I was fool enough to trust. Oh, this is no time for fighting," Latour went on quickly, as sudden anger stiffened Barrington's figure, and gave a dangerous fire to his eyes.

"You will be wise to hear me out. This was a place of safety, it is a prison, and a word from me will send you to the guillotine as surely as we are standing face to face at this moment."

"First prove me a liar; afterward threaten me if you will," Barrington returned.

Latour regarded him in silence for a few moments and then said slowly:

"Tell me, where is Jeanne St. Clair?"

"Jeanne! She has gone?" cried Barrington. "Sabatier said she was with you, that she--"

"It is well done, monsieur; I am no longer a fool or I might be convinced, might still be deceived."

"For Heaven's sake, man, tell me what you mean," and Barrington spoke hoa.r.s.ely.

"If it pleases you to keep up the deception, let me put facts plainly,"

said Latour. "You admit the risk I ran in securing an escape from the Abbaye Prison; you know that the risk was run to no purpose. It was well planned, it was successful, but the woman rescued was not Mademoiselle St. Clair."

"You made a mistake?"

"There was no mistake. The woman was Pauline Vaison, a woman Lucien Bruslart has promised to marry. The mob found her in his apartment, took her for the aristocrat, and carried her to prison in the place of mademoiselle. You are Bruslart's friend and accomplice. I ask you again, where is Jeanne St. Clair?"

It never occurred to Richard Barrington that Latour might be deceiving him, and for the moment he had no thought how he could best convince Latour that he was innocent of any deception. He was utterly overwhelmed by the news. Deep down in his heart he had never really trusted Lucien Bruslart, and all this time Jeanne had been in his hands. Bruslart then had lied from the first, had imposed upon him his feigned grief, and all the time he had been perfecting some foul plot. What had become of Jeanne? The horrible possibilities unnerved him, took the heart out of him. He was as a man who when brought face to face with peril is afraid, who shrinks back and would fly if he could. Latour knew nothing of the thoughts rushing through Barrington's brain, he only saw a man with the courage suddenly gone out of him; he put his own construction upon his manner and laughed.

"It is always unpleasant when the time comes to pay for such deceit," he said.

"I swear to you"

"Spare yourself. I have asked you a question. I want it answered."

"I don't know where she is. I wish to Heaven I did."

"It suits my purpose to give you time to think better of your answer,"

said Latour. "You shall even buy your miserable life by telling the truth. When you tell me where Mademoiselle St. Clair is, you shall leave this prison, not before. I will even do something to get you safely out of Paris and to the seacoast."

"I tell you I do not know. Find Bruslart, ask him."

"I have you safe, that is enough; and I would advise you to come to my terms quickly. There is no escape except through me. Your letter has silenced your servant, and his patience is likely to outlast mine. Tell the truth quickly, Monsieur Barrington; it will be safer."

Latour turned to the door, but Barrington sprang toward him and caught him by the arm.

"Are you mad? Think of her; she is in Bruslart's hands."

Latour wrenched himself free, and as he turned sharply there was a pistol in his hand.