ee her will you speak of me?" he asked.

"We can hardly help doing so."

"She would believe you if you told her something of my love, of what I
have done."

"I will set life and death before her, Latour, and leave her free to
choose."

Latour moved again to the door and again came back.

"Men who love as we do must be enemies, still the enmity may be free
from malice. Other conditions might well have made us friends. Will you
grasp hands once more, Barrington?"

Across the little table their hands met, and were clasped firmly for a
moment as the two men looked into each other's eyes. Then Latour went
out quickly, locking the door behind him.

An hour later he went slowly up the stairs to his rooms. Jacques
Sabatier was waiting for him.

"Bad news, citizen," said Sabatier.

Latour opened his door, and they entered.

"It should be bad news indeed if one may judge by your face," he said.

"Citizen Bruslart was arrested on Saturday. He is in the Conciergerie.
He demands that you see him to-night. He knows that mademoiselle has
escaped from the Rue Charonne, and he makes a shrewd guess where she is
hidden. You must see him, citizen; he is dangerous."

CHAPTER XXVII

A RIDE IN THE NIGHT

Once again the dawn found Raymond Latour seated by the table. No book
lay open before him, he had not attempted to read. Last night he had
gone to the rooms above, taking Sabatier with him. Sabatier forgot to
swagger as he stood before Jeanne St. Clair, trying to look as steadily
at her as she did at him. Then Sabatier had gone with a promise on his
lips which he roundly swore to keep, and for a little while longer
Latour remained with Jeanne. His face was calm when he left her, but
Barrington might have retaliated and said there were tears in his eyes.
Perchance it was the cold wind on the stairs, for the night was bitter,
Latour wrapped himself in a thick coat when he went out, and turned his
steps in the direction of the Conciergerie. It was near midnight when he
returned home, but there was no sleep for him. So the dawn found him
seated by the table. Again he felt cold and made himself coffee, but he
was not excited. His plans were made. He was ready for the day and the
work there was to do in it.

Yesterday the head of a king, a triumph surely to last for many days.
Patriots might rest a little now. But Robespierre thought otherwise as
he talked with Duplay, the cabinet maker, over the evening meal in the
Rue