“My head is heavy,” he said aloud.  “I must have been hurt and been delirious.  For how long, I wonder?”

He began to move slowly about the cell.  It was daylight, whether morning or afternoon he could not tell.  He was not meant to die yet, or the wine and the bread would not be there, yet why was he in this place instead of an ordinary prison?  His limbs were stiff, his head ached, it was difficult to think clearly.  He could not detach reality from dreams.  What had happened in that empty house?  Where was Jeanne?  He threw himself upon the straw bed again, intending to lie there and try to solve the problem, but he fell asleep.

He was roused suddenly.  A man was bending over him, had probably touched him.  It was Raymond Latour.  For a moment or two Barrington was uncertain whether this was a dream or reality.

“So you’re awake at last,” said Latour.

Barrington rose slowly to his feet, and then sat down in the chair by the table.

“What day is it?”

“Monday—­Monday afternoon.”

Barrington appeared to make a calculation.

“Monday!” he said.  “Then I have been here—­”

“Since early on Saturday morning,” said Latour.  “You were knocked about a bit in that empty house, and you’ve been in a more or less unconscious condition ever since.  Have you your wits now?  I have something important to say to you.”

“Then you know about that empty house?”

“Yes.”

“You arranged the—­”

“Your capture—­yes.”

Barrington rose to his feet quickly, but stumbled a little as he did so.

“Now you must settle with me,” he said.

“You’re not strong enough yet,” said Latour, easily catching the arm which aimed a feeble blow at him.  “Mademoiselle St. Clair is safe.  She is not in prison.  Your man is safe.  You, too, are safe for the present.  You had better listen to all I have to say.”

Barrington sat down again, frowning at his impotence.  He had not realized how weak he was.

“I let you out of this place believing you a liar, and had you watched,” said Latour.  “I still believed you a liar when I found that you knew mademoiselle was in Legrand’s house in the Rue Charonne.  Your man was watched too, and his preparations in that empty house understood.  You know the result.  I have it from mademoiselle’s own lips that you are not a liar, that you are not in league with Lucien Bruslart, and I believe her.”

“Where is she?”

“Safe in my keeping.”

Barrington did not answer for a moment.  Then he said slowly, “She is the aristocrat in whom you are interested?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is you who have lied?”

“I deceived you, yes.  Be a man, Barrington; look at this thing with the eyes of a man.  What reason was there that I should trust you with such a secret?  I had set myself a goal to win, why should I jeopardize my chances?  Bruslart was the man she loved, not you.”