not
undeceive him; his master was not a man who talked for the sake of
talking, yet from the moment they had driven spurs into their horses and
dashed from the wood end, Barrington had hardly ceased to speculate on
his adventure. A man does not easily forget a woman who has come to him
as a revelation even though she deceive him. The sight of Sabatier,
therefore, did not recall Jeanne St. Clair to his mind, she had hardly
been absent from his thoughts for a moment, but set him speculating in
another direction.

"How far do you suppose this inn, the Lion d'Or, is along the road
yonder?" he asked suddenly.

"Not a mile," was the answer.

Barrington nodded thoughtfully. Seth's opinion agreed with his own.

"Sabatier, no doubt, came from there," he said after a pause.

"Probably. We were wise to miss it. It would not have been convenient to
enter Paris in his company."

There was another pause of some duration.

"Has he been out hunting, stopping aristocrats?"

It was hardly a question, rather a speculation unconsciously put into
words.

Seth shrugged his shoulders.

"It does not concern us. They may fully merit the hunting and deserve
whatever fate they meet with. I am not in love with the patriots I have
encountered, nor do I like the aristocrats I have seen any better. For
my part I would as lief sail back to Virginia and let them fight out
their own quarrel. A dog of breed has no cause to interfere in a fight
between curs."

"I wonder whether we have passed mademoiselle and her escort upon the
road," said Barrington.

"What's in your mind, Master Richard?" asked Seth, sharply.

"I have thought it strange that we did not overtake them."

"Better horses, or better knowledge of the country would account for
that."

"Yes, but she may be at the Lion d'Or at this moment, and in the hands
of men like Sabatier."

There was no need for Seth to ask questions. The burden of anxiety which
had slipped from him was suddenly at his feet again and he took it up
reluctantly. Barrington understood.

"I cannot go on leaving her in such hands," he said. "Think what it may
mean. We know something of Sabatier."

Seth nodded, but with no encouragement. Had he known more of Jacques
Sabatier, could he have seen the heap of ashes which had once been the
inn at Tremont and known what was hidden beneath them, his attitude
would have been different.

"There may be much to excuse her for not believing in me," Barrington
we