eral times to make sure the fugitives were not hidden in
some shed or hollow. If he travelled to the Lion d'Or that is how we
must have missed him."

"Come to me to-night at nine," he said, dismissing them. His anger was
great, but it did not suit him to say more.

This was all Latour knew when he chanced upon Richard Barrington in the
afternoon. He was thinking of mademoiselle when the noise of the
approaching crowd reached him, and then he noticed the tall, strongly
knit figure of the man just before him. A second glance convinced him
that this was the American; therefore mademoiselle was in Paris. This
was the man who had brought all his scheming to naught; his enemy, a
daring and dangerous foe. He noted the expression on Barrington's face
as the crowd went by, saw the intention in his eyes. In another moment
his enemy might be destroyed, gashed with pikes, trampled under foot,
yet Latour put out his hand and stopped him. Why? Latour could not see
even his enemy throw his life away so uselessly. He hardly gave a
thought to the wretched prisoner in the coach, but his interest was keen
in the man who went with him to the wine shop. It was no mere phrase
when he said he was a man after his own heart, he meant it. Their paths
in life might be antagonistic, their ideals diametrically opposed, yet
in both men there was purpose and determination, a struggle towards
great achievement, a definite end to strive after. Circumstances might
make them the deadliest of foes, but there was a strong and natural
desire for friendship as they clasped hands.

"I could love that man," Latour mused as he went towards the Rue Valette
afterwards. "Yet I must spy upon him and deceive him if I can.
Mademoiselle is in Paris and he knows where she is hidden. He is
Bruslart's friend, and Bruslart I hate."

He climbed the stairs to his room to find Sabatier waiting for him on
the landing.

"I have heard," said Latour, unlocking his door and entering the room
with his visitor, "I have heard the whole story. The fools have been
outwitted. I have just left this man Barrington."

"Citizen, I do not think you have heard the whole story."

Latour turned quickly. Something in the man's tone startled him.

"Mademoiselle was taken to the Abbaye prison this afternoon," said
Sabatier.

A cry, a little cry almost like the whine of a small animal suddenly
hurt, escaped from Latour's lips. His strength seemed to go out of him,
and he sank into a cha