“Welcome.  I expected you an hour ago,” he said.

The voice was familiar, and they followed him down a narrow passage into the lighted room at the back.  It was not Latour but Jacques Sabatier.

“Welcome, Monsieur Barrington; we meet in strange places.”

“And what is the purpose this time?”

“Your safety,” answered Sabatier.  “When we first met I never supposed I should have been employed so often in your affairs, ay, and have risked my head on your behalf, too.”

“You seem to forget that you have tricked me.”

“Has it not turned out for the best?” said Sabatier.

“I will answer that question when I know for what purpose I have been brought to this place to-night.”

“Truly, it’s a poor hostelry to welcome any man to, especially officers of the Convention,” laughed Sabatier.

“I go no farther until I know where I go and the purpose.”

“We go toward Bordeaux and the sea; the purpose, to put you on board some vessel which shall carry you in safety to America.”

Barrington moved swiftly to the door and set his back against it.

“So Latour has tricked me once more.  He will be rid of me so that a defenseless woman may be altogether in his power.  I return to Paris at once.  The odds are equal, and you have papers which I must have.  They may be useful to me.”

There was the sharp clatter of steel as Barrington and Seth drew their sabres.  Then a door, which neither of them had noticed, on the other side of the room, opened, and a man stood on the threshold.

“The odds are with us, Monsieur Barrington,” said Sabatier.  “I think you will be compelled to travel toward Bordeaux.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SUPREME SACRIFICE

There had been no fresh news to tell at the barrier on the Versailles Road, nor at other barriers, until late that night, yet Paris was excited all day.  The storm was destined to develop quickly into a cyclone.  Where was Latour?  What secret plotting against the people had he been engaged in that he should come forward to defend such a man as Lucien Bruslart?  One put the question to Robespierre himself; the answer was a look and a whisper which meant much.  There was the suggestion that the deputy was a traitor.  There seemed no other answer to the question, and inquiry must be made.  Who was the woman who had cried out that Deputy Latour might himself be in love with the emigre?  She was a good patriot surely, and she was not difficult to find, for she thrust herself into prominence.  Yes, she was the woman who had denounced Lucien Bruslart.  Why?  It was a long story, and she did not intend that the deputy’s eloquence should save Bruslart.  He had been her lover, but what was love when the country was in danger?  She had been a prisoner in the Abbaye, taken there in mistake for an aristocrat.  She had been rescued.  This man Raymond Latour