had shown her
the advisability of choosing this room rather than another. She would be
undisturbed here after her frugal meal, except by her companions
perchance, and she had thrown back her rough cloak, showing fustian
garments beneath, yet she was a strange peasant woman surely. Hands and
face were stained a little, as though from exposure to sun and weather,
but underneath the skin was smooth. Exposure had cut no lines in the
face, labor had not hardened the hands. At the inn door her form had
seemed a little bent, but alone in this room she stood straight as an
arrow.

One of her companions entered presently. Citizen Mercier he called
himself; a hateful name handle, he explained, but necessary for their
safety. He wore the tri-color, too, and plumed himself that he passed
for as good a patriot as any. He closed the door carefully.

"So far we have managed well, mademoiselle. I have found a friend here
who will ride into Paris and bring us word in the morning how we can
most safely enter the city. We must be a little patient."

"Did he know anything of Lucien Bruslart?"

"I did not ask. It was difficult to get a moment to whisper to each
other. And I will not stay with you. It would not be wise to take too
much interest in a peasant woman," and he smiled and shrugged his
shoulders.

Jeanne St. Clair continued to stare at the door after he had gone. Her
thoughts followed him as he went down the stairs to join his companions
and take his share of the wine. Lucien had chosen a strange messenger, a
friend Monsieur Mercier had called himself, yet Jeanne had never known
him nor heard of him before. He puzzled her. Loneliness, and the
circumstances in which she was placed, naturally made her thoughtful,
and it was easy to be suspicious. Truly, Monsieur Mercier had proved
himself a friend, full of ideas, full of resource, for danger had
threatened them more than once upon the long and tedious journey from
Beauvais. They had been obliged to halt at strange taverns, and there
had been many delays. Now they were within a few miles of Paris--of
Lucien. Yes, Monsieur Mercier had proved himself a friend, and yet, had
it been possible, she would sooner have called another man friend, a man
who was her enemy. How, easily she had believed him! Richard Barrington.
She spoke the name aloud, but not easily, trying to say it exactly as he
had done, and the deliberation which she gave to each syllable made the
name sound pleasant. S