“I often wonder, too,” said Richard.  “Perhaps we shall never know, Jeanne.”

News traveled slowly, and there was little detail in it.  The Reign of Terror had come and gone, its high priests swallowed in the fury which they had created.  Danton had died like a man, Robespierre like a cur; and then the end—­cannon clearing the mob from the streets of Paris.  A new era had dawned for France, but the future was yet on the knees of the gods.  Had Raymond Latour escaped the final catastrophe?  Were Sabatier, and Mercier, and Dubois still in Paris, more honestly employed than formerly perchance?  Or had they all sunk in the final storm, gone down into night with their sins red upon them?  No news of them reached Broadmead, only a rumor that the Marquis de Lafayette had fallen into the hands of Austria, and certain news that the Terror was at an end.

“Probably we shall never hear of them,” said Richard.

“Always I think of Latour in my prayers,” Jeanne said.

“Yes, you promised that.  I wonder whether he ever had your message?”

“I cannot decide,” said Jeanne, thoughtfully.  “At first I felt that he had not, and then, quite suddenly, Richard, it seemed to me that he knew and was glad.  I cannot help thinking that Raymond Latour did something for us, some great thing of which we have no idea, which we shall never know—­here.”

“He helped to give you to me, Jeanne.  I know that, and in my heart thank him every day of my life.  Listen!  Wheels!  That must be Seth back from Richmond.  He may have news.”

Hand in hand they went toward the house, and there Seth met them.  He was full of the news he had heard in Richmond, but there was nothing new from France.

THE END