dly enough not
to draw attention to himself. If a street was in possession of the mob
he avoided it, nor did he pass in the light which came from noisy wine
shops, but he did not make the mistake of avoiding those who approached
him. His route to the Rue Charonne was therefore a circuitous one, but
he came presently to a street which led directly into it, which seemed
quieter than many he had passed through, and he took it.

He had traversed three-parts of its length in safety when from two side
streets crowds came simultaneously. To hurry might raise suspicion, to
turn back most certainly would; so Barrington kept on, not increasing
his pace, but with his eyes and ears keenly alive. His steady pace
exactly brought him into the midst of those who were at the heads of
these two crowds, and he was ready to receive and return any salutation
or coarse pleasantry which might be offered to him, when he found
himself carried in a rush to one side of the street. Between these two
crowds there was some quarrel, possibly no more than an hour old, and
men and women flew at one another in a fury. Being at the edge of the
fight Barrington had no great difficulty in extricating himself, and no
need to defend himself beyond an arm flung out to avoid the blow from a
stick. So fully were they engaged in their fight that they were unlikely
to take much notice of him, and he was congratulating himself on his
escape when one out of the many faces about him suddenly seemed to stand
out distinct from all the rest. Barrington did not know the face, had
never seen the man before that he was aware of, but it fascinated him.
He was obliged to stare back into the eyes fixed upon him, and knew
instinctively that he was in peril.

"An aristocrat!"

The exclamation burst out like the report of a pistol.

"The American!"

The noise of the fight sank in a kind of sob as the roar of a breaking
wave sinks with an angry swish back into silence; and as there is a
pause before the next wave is flung upward to break and roar, so was
there a pause now. Then came the yell of fury, faction quarrel
forgotten. They were all of one mind in a moment.

"An aristocrat! The American! The American!"

In the moment of pause Barrington had thrust aside a man who seemed to
bar his way, and had started to run. He was a score of yards to the
good; with fortune on his side he would turn into the Rue Charonne well
ahead of all but two of his pursuers; an open doorway