One evening there came a knock at his door and the servant of Monsieur de Lafayette entered.

“News, at last,” Seth said, and in a tone which showed that in spite of his patience, the waiting had been weary work.

“A letter,” the man answered.

Seth looked at it.  It was addressed to Richard Barrington, just the name written, that was all.

“How did you get it?” asked Seth.

“A girl brought it only to-day.  She asked for my master, and when I told her he was not in Paris, she asked where she could find Monsieur Barrington.  I did not tell her, but I said I could deliver the letter.”

Seth nodded as he turned the letter over and over, a puzzled expression in his face.

“She seemed doubtful about leaving it with me, but in the end did so, saying it was a matter of life and death.”

“It’s good of you to have brought it,” said Seth.  “She did not say who it was from?”

“No.”

“Look at the writing again and tell me if by any chance it comes from the Marquis.”

“That’s a woman’s writing,” said the man.

“But not a writing you know?”

“Quite strange to me.”

When he was alone, Seth locked his door and again examined the writing.  His master only knew one woman in Paris, and surely she could not be writing to him.  She must know where he was.  If she didn’t, then in some fashion Latour had deceived him.  He put the letter on the table and began to walk slowly about the room.

“It is right that I should open it,” he said suddenly.  “It may be a matter of life and death to Master Richard.  He will forgive me.”

He took up the letter, and after a little hesitation tore it open.

“It is from her,” he said, glancing at the name on the last of the scraps of paper of which the letter was composed.  “I was right to open it.”

He sat down by the table and read it slowly, certain portions of it he read a second time, and at intervals made a sound with his mouth like an oath cut short, or a gasp of surprise half suppressed.  So Latour had lied, and Bruslart had lied, and mademoiselle was—­

“A life and death matter!  It’s true.  It is.  Oh, Master Richard, where are you?  It’s your letter.  She calls to you.  What can I do?”

The words were muttered in hot haste as though the answer must come quickly.  It did.

“Your letter, yet mine since you are not here.  So your work becomes mine, Master Richard.  I must rescue mademoiselle.  How?  Let me think.  Let me think.  God, help me to think.”

There was a slow, heavy footstep upon the stairs, and in a moment Seth had hidden the letter.  Then a knock at the door.  Seth opened it, and stood face to face with Jacques Sabatier, who had his finger upon his lip.

“Let me in, citizen.  I have turned traitor and have a story to tell.”

CHAPTER XXI