ar constraint fell upon the
two who were left. The Vicomte, with a grave face, paused by the table,
and stood listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps. The girl,
who had withdrawn to the farther end of the room, kept her face averted.
The Vicomte looked at her doubtfully--looked at her more than once.
"Mademoiselle," he ventured at last, his voice low and agitated, "I am
afraid he--I am afraid he means mischief."

"I fear so," she whispered without turning.

"Will you--shall I speak to your father?"

"It may be better," she answered--to the same tone.

He looked at her long at that, but she did not move; and with a gesture
as of farewell he turned and went softly away. Safe in his own room,
with the door shut, he stood in the middle of the floor thinking;
thinking not of the secretary nor of the danger with which Baudouin's
enmity threatened the house, but of the strange look which the girl's
face had worn on his first appearance at her side, the look of relief
and thankfulness which he had surprised in her eyes, the impulse of
confidence which had made her move towards him! He recalled them all,
and his brow grew hot, his hand trembled. He felt at once terror and
shame. When he heard M. Mirande's step on the stairs, he gave himself no
time for thought, but went hurriedly out on the lobby and called him
into the room. "M. Mirande," he said, "I have something to tell you. I
have two things to tell you."

The Republican looked at him, his inscrutable eyes betraying no
surprise. "What are they?" he asked, his tone almost phlegmatic.

"The man Baudouin has been here, addressing himself so rudely to your
daughter that I felt myself obliged to--to interfere."

"That is unlucky."

"It may be that he has your confidence," the young Vicomte continued,
"but, from the way in which he spoke of you, I doubt if you have his. He
seemed to me--a dangerous man, M. Baudouin."

"Did he use threats?" the Republican asked, a slight shade of anxiety in
his tone.

The Vicomte nodded.

"Did he mention any names?" M. Mirande continued, looking sharply at his
watch.

"Yes. Those of Carnot, Barrere--and I think, Tallien."

"Ah!" For a moment M. Mirande's impulse seemed to be to leave the room;
to leave it hurriedly, to go back perhaps whence he had come. But he
thought better of it, and after a pause he continued, "Had you not
something else to tell me?"

"I had," the young man answered, betraying, by his agitation, th