The room seemed full of men, crowded, there was hardly room to fight effectually.  Barrington struck on this side and that, yet his blows never seemed to reach their destination.  For a little while he and Seth were back to back, but had soon been separated.  Now there seemed no order or purpose in the struggle.  It was a nightmare of confusion.  A face glared into his for a moment then disappeared, its place taken the next instant by another.  Strangely familiar faces some of them seemed, memories from dreams long ago.  There had been hands on the estate in Virginia, men he had been rather afraid of when he was a little child; they seemed to stare at him now for a moment, lit by a red fire which no longer seemed merely the light from the lanterns.  Then came other faces; that of the man he and Seth had found on the Tremont road, that of Sabatier’s companion at the inn.  Then the faces of the men who had made a rush for the stairs that night at the Lion d’Or fiercely glared at him; then Mercier’s, so close that he could feel the hot breath upon his cheek.  And then suddenly out of the darkness glowed another face, that of the man who had looked at him when he was caught in the crowd on his way to the Rue Charonne that night, and it seemed to Barrington that once again he sprang forward to make an attempt to save himself by flight.  The illusion was complete, for there was a voice of command in his ear.  He struck at something that was in his way, something which seemed to catch him by the throat, then he jumped and fell.  He was in darkness and silence.

Jeanne had started from her corner.  Everything happened quickly.  She heard the door break inwards, saw a rush of men, and lanterns in the opening.  For a few moments she could distinguish Richard Barrington and Seth.  Then Seth fell, dragging others with him.  For a little longer Barrington struggled, and then from behind something was thrown over his head and he was pulled backwards.  Jeanne started from her corner with a cry, and immediately arms were about her, holding her back.

“No harm will come to him, we are friends,” said a voice in her ear.  “A sound may betray you and us.”

She tried to speak, but could not.  Her words were turned into a mumble.  A cloth was over her mouth and face, fastened tightly, strong arms lifted her and carried her forwards.  She could not see, she could not struggle.  The noise of the fighting grew rapidly less.  She was being swiftly carried away from it, now along a passage, now down two or three flights of stairs.  She was in the open air, the cold wind of the night was about her.  There were voices, a quick word or two, then other arms were about her, placing her in a chair it seemed—­no, a coach.  Wheels turned quickly on the uneven cobbles of the street, a horse galloped, and then settled into a fast trot.  Whether the journey was long or short, Jeanne hardly knew, her brain was in a whirl, refusing to work consecutively.  The coach stopped, again strong arms lifted her, again a passage, the night air still about her, then stairs up which she was borne.  A door opened and she was gently placed in a chair.  The door closed again.  For a moment there was silence.