“Is it necessary to lock me in?” Barrington asked.

“It is not to prevent your going out, monsieur, but to insure that your enemies do not come in.”

“I feel like a prisoner.”

“Better that than falling into the hands of the mob.”

On the fourth day Sabatier brought a message from Latour.  Barrington’s servant Seth had been to him inquiring about his master.  Naturally, perhaps, he was not inclined to believe Latour’s word that he was safe, and unless he had some definite proof might ruin everything by making inquiries in other directions.

“Will you write a letter to your servant, monsieur, telling him to wait until he has further instructions from you?”

“Might he not come to me here?”

“For the present that would be too dangerous,” Sabatier answered.  “I come and go, monsieur, because I was bred in this quarter of the city.  The mob claims me as a part of it, and truly I am, except in this business.  I began by simply obeying Citizen Latour, for my own benefit, I make no secret of it; now I am also interested in Monsieur Barrington.”

The letter to Seth was written and given to Sabatier to deliver.  Two more weary days of waiting passed, and then late one afternoon Raymond Latour came.

Barrington welcomed him, both hands held out to him.

“It was bravely done,” he exclaimed.  “You must have run great risk in getting her from the Abbaye prison.”

“Yes, great risk.  I have come to talk to you about it.”

Latour ignored the outstretched hands.  He stood in front of Barrington with folded arms.  There was something amiss.

“What has happened?” Barrington asked.

“The usual thing when an honest man trusts a liar; the honest man has been deceived.”

“You speak of—­”

“Of one Richard Barrington, a liar I was fool enough to trust.  Oh, this is no time for fighting,” Latour went on quickly, as sudden anger stiffened Barrington’s figure, and gave a dangerous fire to his eyes.  “You will be wise to hear me out.  This was a place of safety, it is a prison, and a word from me will send you to the guillotine as surely as we are standing face to face at this moment.”

“First prove me a liar; afterward threaten me if you will,” Barrington returned.

Latour regarded him in silence for a few moments and then said slowly: 

“Tell me, where is Jeanne St. Clair?”

“Jeanne!  She has gone?” cried Barrington.  “Sabatier said she was with you, that she—­”

“It is well done, monsieur; I am no longer a fool or I might be convinced, might still be deceived.”

“For Heaven’s sake, man, tell me what you mean,” and Barrington spoke hoarsely.

“If it pleases you to keep up the deception, let me put facts plainly,” said Latour.  “You admit the risk I ran in securing an escape from the Abbaye Prison; you know that the risk was run to no purpose.  It was well planned, it was successful, but the woman rescued was not Mademoiselle St. Clair.”