Late hours were not kept at the Maison Legrand, candles were an expensive item.  Jeanne was among the first to move this evening.

“Good night, Monsieur l’Abbe.”

“Good night, mademoiselle,” he said, raising her hand to his lips.  “To-morrow is Saturday.  I wonder who goes to-morrow?  We are happy in having no anxiety.”

Barrington was by the door and opened it for her.

“Does mademoiselle permit?” and as he bent over her hand he whispered, “Be ready.  Listen.  Wait until I come.”

CHAPTER XXIII

THE EMPTY HOUSE

The thought of the morrow was pleasant to Dr. Legrand.  In his study he bent over a paper of calculations, figures that appealed to the greedy soul that was in him.

“Vive la Revolution,” he murmured; “it makes me rich.  He is careful, this citizen, and does not trust me to fulfill a bargain.  To-morrow I shall have the papers; it will be early, and then—­then the money.  He cannot escape without my help, he cannot escape me.”

He put down his pen and rubbed his hands together.  He was excited to-night.

“I am sorry for mademoiselle,” he said as he went to bed, but his sorrow did not keep him awake, his conscience was too dead to trouble him.  He slept as a just man sleeps, soundly.

Jeanne did not sleep.  She sat in the dark, waiting, listening.  Doors were shut in distant corridors, the house gradually grew quiet.  She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, a little excited, but not impatient.  How long she had waited, how long she would have to wait, she did not know, but she had perfect faith, and did not become restless.  A moment was coming when she must act, and she was prepared.  Just that moment mattered and nothing else; all her thoughts were focused upon it.

It came suddenly, a scratching on the door, so light as to be inaudible except to listening ears.  Jeanne rose at once, silently opened the door, which purposely she had not latched, and stepped into the passage.  A hand touched her on the arm and then slid down her arm until it clasped her fingers.  She was pulled forward gently.

“The stairs—­carefully,” whispered a voice.

Not a sound was in the house, nor in the world it seemed, as they went down the stairs and along the passage to the window which overlooked the roof of the outbuildings.  The night was dark, overcast, not a star.  This was a window seldom opened.  Last night Barrington had examined it, had eased the latch; now there was hardly a sound as he opened it, only the cold night air coming in.

“I go first,” said Barrington; and he climbed out and dropped silently on to the roof some five feet below.  Jeanne followed, and he lifted her down.  Then he climbed up again, and, supporting himself on the sill, closed the window.

“Give me your hand,” he whispered; and he led her across the roof, feeling his way carefully to prevent tripping over a partition or gutter.  Jeanne did not speak, but followed his whispered instructions; she made no sound when he bent down and taking her foot placed it upon a little parapet which they had to cross, and she stood perfectly still until he lifted her down.  A few paces more and Barrington stopped.  He guided her hand to a rope.