Raymond Latour found himself hustled as he left the building.  It was remembered that he had voted against the death of the king, that he had been for delay.  To-day had proved that he had sympathy for aristocrats and emigres.  Yet he was Deputy Latour, powerful in the Convention, powerful in many quarters of the city, a man who was only partially understood and therefore dangerous.  Robespierre, it was whispered, feared him, and Danton had been heard to say that he was better as a friend than an enemy.  Even the firebrand Hebert had dared to say little against him in his paper “Pere Duchesne.”  Latour was keenly alive to the angry storm which threatened, but this was not the moment to face it.  A few hours might turn storm to sunshine, or perchance increase the storm to a veritable cyclone against which no man could stand.  He passed into the street and out of the crowd, his face firm set, unreadable.  He showed no sign of fear, he seemed curiously indifferent to man’s opinion of him.  It was noted by some that he did not go in the direction of the Rue Valette, and when he had passed out of sight they told one another that there was a set purpose on the deputy’s face.  What purpose?  He hurried presently, choosing narrow and deserted streets, as a man who carries a secret and does not wish to be seen.

Barrington had roused from a night of dreamless sleep, refreshed, ready for the new day which was already creeping into his cell.  Would Jeanne decide to see him once more?  Yes, he was convinced she would.  He was glad to feel the new strength in him, for there must be no tears in his eyes at that meeting, only brave words on his lips and strong encouragement in his face.  Surely that meeting would be to-day.  Latour would not delay.  Yet, what did he mean when he said it might be difficult?

He asked no questions when Mercier brought his breakfast.  It was strange, after all that had happened, that he should trust Latour, yet he did.  He could not help doing so when they had grasped hands first in the wine shop—­how long ago that seemed!—­he had done so yesterday when they had gripped hands across this little table.  He was a strange mixture of good and evil, this Raymond Latour.  What did he intend to do?  Would he sacrifice Jeanne rather than lose her?

“I cannot guess,” Barrington murmured to himself.  “He probably thinks that Jeanne will marry him rather than see me sent to the guillotine.  It is a hard test.  How must I counsel her?”

The light which came through the high grating gradually grew less.  The night was coming quickly.  He was not to see Jeanne to-day, perhaps never again.  The bravery of the early hours passed from him and a chill of despair was at his heart as he sat at the table, his face buried in his hands.

The room was dark when the door opened and Mercier entered.

“Monsieur, will you follow me?”

Barrington sprang to his feet at once.