“Nothing.”

“But—­”

“Nothing at all,” Jeanne answered.  “I have heard him spoken of as being one of the leaders of the Revolution.  To my knowledge I have never seen him.”

“Has Lucien Bruslart never mentioned him?”

“As we drove here that morning he said that this Latour was one of the most bitter antagonists of aristocrats, and that he would do all in his power to capture me.  Lucien said this was the chief reason for bringing me to this place of safety.  I must tell you, Monsieur Barrington, that on leaving you that morning, we got into a coach and drove straight here.  My coming had already been arranged for.  I did not go to Lucien’s apartments at all.  He did not seem inclined to trust either you or the Marquis de Lafayette.”

“He was justified perhaps in not trusting me on so slight an acquaintance.  I do not blame him.  Still, I am much puzzled by his subsequent actions, and the fact remains that while Lucien Bruslart has done little for you, or so at least it appears, this man Latour most certainly risked his life to get you out of the Abbaye prison.”

“Yes; I do not understand it,” said Jeanne; and then after a pause she went on, “You read all my letter?”

“A dozen times,” Barrington answered.

“Does it not help you to understand something?”

“Mademoiselle, you ask me a difficult question.  I answer it directly, and in spite of the fact that it must pain you, only because of the seriousness of your position.  I have never trusted Lucien Bruslart.  I believe he has played you false from first to last in this affair.  I believe he sent for you to come to Paris; how else could your coming here have been arranged for?  Honestly, I have tried to drive these thoughts out of my mind as treacherous and unworthy, but your letter seems only to confirm them.  How is it your fees to this scoundrel Legrand have not been paid?  How is it your own money has been taken?  Bruslart is not in prison.  Where is he?  Could anything short of locks and bars stop your lover from coming to you?”

He spoke in a low, passionate tone, but his face remained calm, and he made no gesture of anger, of impatience.  Watching him, the keenest eyes could not have detected that he was moved in any way.

“My letter must have shown you the doubts in my mind,” Jeanne answered quietly.  “Since you helped me into Paris at so much risk to yourself, I cannot see that your thoughts could be called unworthy or treacherous.”

“For all that, they were.  Had you not loved Lucien Bruslart it would have been different.”

“Why?”

“That question must remain unanswered, mademoiselle.”

Jeanne turned to him for a moment, but Barrington did not look at her.

“I think I know,” she said quietly, after a pause.  “Some other day I shall ask the question again, monsieur—­if we live.  I wrote my letter to the one friend I knew I had in Paris; that man is now beside me.  I have no fear, Monsieur Barrington, just because you are here.  You are risking your life for me, not for the first time.  If you fail it means my death as well as yours.  I would rather it came that way than any other, and I am not afraid.  Tell me your plans.”