Seth nodded as he turned the letter over and over, a puzzled expression in his face.

"She seemed doubtful about leaving it with me, but in the end did so, saying it was a matter of life and death."

"It's good of you to have brought it," said Seth. "She did not say who it was from?"

"No."

"Look at the writing again and tell me if by any chance it comes from the Marquis."

"That's a woman's writing," said the man.

"But not a writing you know?"

"Quite strange to me."

When he was alone, Seth locked his door and again examined the writing.

His master only knew one woman in Paris, and surely she could not be writing to him. She must know where he was. If she didn't, then in some fashion Latour had deceived him. He put the letter on the table and began to walk slowly about the room.

"It is right that I should open it," he said suddenly. "It may be a matter of life and death to Master Richard. He will forgive me."

He took up the letter, and after a little hesitation tore it open.

"It is from her," he said, glancing at the name on the last of the sc.r.a.ps of paper of which the letter was composed. "I was right to open it."

He sat down by the table and read it slowly, certain portions of it he read a second time, and at intervals made a sound with his mouth like an oath cut short, or a gasp of surprise half suppressed. So Latour had lied, and Bruslart had lied, and mademoiselle was--

"A life and death matter! It's true. It is. Oh, Master Richard, where are you? It's your letter. She calls to you. What can I do?"

The words were muttered in hot haste as though the answer must come quickly. It did.

"Your letter, yet mine since you are not here. So your work becomes mine, Master Richard. I must rescue mademoiselle. How? Let me think. Let me think. G.o.d, help me to think."

There was a slow, heavy footstep upon the stairs, and in a moment Seth had hidden the letter. Then a knock at the door. Seth opened it, and stood face to face with Jacques Sabatier, who had his finger upon his lip.

"Let me in, citizen. I have turned traitor and have a story to tell."

CHAPTER XXI

THE MARQUIS DE CASTELLUX

Much the same thing had Sabatier said to Richard Barrington only that morning.

"Deputy Latour will not believe in you," he explained. "He is a fool as I have told him each day, giving him your message, and I am tired of serving fools. A day or two, monsieur, and you shall be free. Sabatier promises that. I am turning traitor."

Barrington thanked him, he could do no less, yet he felt little trust in a man who could confess so glibly to treachery. He would believe the promise when his prison door stood open, when he was free to walk out unhindered, not before.

That day was a long one; indeed, each day seemed longer than the one which preceded it. Confinement was beginning to tell its tale on Barrington. This underground dungeon, it was little better, was gradually taking the heart out of him. At first he had been able to forget long hours in sleep, but latterly this had been denied him.

Sleepless nights succeeded restless days.

To-night he was restless. The silence about him was like the silence of the grave, this place was almost as hopeless as the grave. He wondered how thick these stone walls might be, whether there were other dungeons beyond where other prisoners wore out their hearts. He stood beneath the barred grating for a little while, listening. Even the world without seemed dead. No sound ever came through that narrow opening. What saint, or repentant sinner had dragged out his days here when this was a cell in a monastery? Had he never regretted his vows and longed for the world of sunshine and rain, of blue sky and breezy plain, of star-lit nights and rough weather? Surely he must have done? The world of sinners was a fairer place than this stone dwelling though a saint lodged in it. Truly it was a secure hiding place, or a prison where one might easily be forgotten. The thought was a horrible one, and Barrington went to the door. It was locked. It was a stout door, too, of wood and iron. If Latour and Sabatier were arrested, as might easily happen, that door would remain locked. Probably no other person knew that he was there. He was in the mood when such thoughts cannot be driven out of the brain.

There was half a bottle of thin wine remaining from his last meal, and he drank it greedily. His throat was suddenly dry and his hand was unsteady as he raised the gla.s.s to his lips. He was conscious of the fact, shook himself, stamped his foot sharply on the stone floor, and spoke to himself aloud.

"This is cowardice, Richard, and for cowardice there is no excuse."

Something like that his mother had once said to him. He had not remembered it until he had spoken the words, and then the recollection brought many scenes to his mind, dreams of youth, back, how far back?

how long ago? memories of old times, a green hummock and the blue waters of Chesapeake Bay. The world had changed since then. Father, mother gone, voices silent forever, loved voices never to be forgotten; and yet, in those days there had been no Jeanne.

"Jeanne!" he said aloud. "Jeanne!"

Then he was silent, and his nerves grew tense. The silence was suddenly broken, not rudely but stealthily as a thief breaks it, or as one who knows that crime is best accomplished in the night; a key was being fumbled into the lock. Sabatier would open quickly, knowing the key and the lock, besides, Sabatier had never come at this hour. It was a stranger. Friend or foe? Barrington moved towards the door. Whoever came would find him awake, ready to sell life dearly, perchance to win freedom. The key was pushed home and turned. The door opened cautiously.

"Seth!"

"Hush, Master Richard. I know not what danger is near us, but come quickly and quietly. Bring that lantern. We must chance the light until I find the way."

Barrington caught up the lantern from the table and followed him.

"He said to the right," whispered Seth.

"Who said so?" asked Barrington.

"Sabatier."

"Is he honest?"

"I don't know, Master Richard, but he brought me through many vaults and showed me the door, then left me quickly. He did not lie when he said you were behind it; and see, a way to the right and steps. He did not lie about them either."

They went up the stairs cautiously, Seth leading, and at the top was a trapdoor, unfastened, easily lifted.

"Again he told the truth," Seth whispered.

They were in a cellar full of rubbish, evil smelling, too, and at the end was a door; a turned handle opened it, and a few steps brought them up into a pa.s.sage.

"Set down the lantern, Master Richard, and blow it out. We shall not need it. Come quietly."

The pa.s.sage led to an open door, and they stepped into the street, little more than a narrow alley, dark and silent.

"Sabatier said to the right. All is well so far. Shall we follow his instructions to the end?"

"Yes," Barrington answered.

They came without hindrance into a wider street. It was the street in which Barrington had been attacked by the mob; half of that crowd must have come down this very alley. They went quickly, their direction towards Monsieur Fargeau's house. They entered the street in which it stood, and then Seth stopped.

"We don't go in yet, Master Richard, I have something to show you first.