small matter, and just when he learned that a journey into Switzerland was involved, interruption had come and the man had lost consciousness.  Barrington had fully intended to explain to the wounded man that such a journey was impossible.  After Sabatier and his companion had left the inn, he had gone upstairs for this purpose, only to find the man dead.  He had made a promise to a dying man, and at all hazards that promise must be fulfilled.  The sooner it was done, the sooner he could journey to Paris; and their arrival in Beauvais at the time of this masked ball was fortunate:  there need be little delay.

A little later Monsieur le Comte found them.

“We must needs celebrate your escape,” he said.  “This is my friend, like myself an exile from Paris.  You are also from Paris?”

“From outside Paris,” Barrington answered.  For the nonce he must pose as an aristocrat, and wondered by what name he might best deceive them.  Seth, too, was a grave difficulty.  He could show few marks of an aristocrat.

The Frenchman’s next words saved him all trouble, however.

“We do not ask too many questions in Beauvais, Monsieur.  That we are here proves that we do not uphold the people, and we need not too closely inquire who our neighbor may be.  We shall not all wish to maintain the friendships made in exile when we return to France.  Here’s to your safe arrival, Monsieur, and to our speedy return.  The sentiment is of the best vintage, though the wine may be inferior.  I warrant the cellars of the chateau will do better for us to-morrow night.  You go to the ball, Monsieur?”

“I am ill-provided for such an entertainment.”

“As are many others,” was the laughing answer, “since they were obliged to leave so hurriedly that there was short time for packing.  That need not deter you, Monsieur, and if you have no opportunity of apprising the Marquise of your arrival, I believe there are some so poor in their exile that they would sell their invitation.  We do things in Beauvais that would shame us elsewhere.”

“I must confess to not being personally acquainted with the Marquise,” said Barrington.

“Say no more, Monsieur; you shall have an invitation in the morning.  A few louis will purchase it.”

“You overwhelm me with courtesy,” said Barrington.

“No, no; it is nothing.  To-morrow evening I may have the opportunity of presenting you to the Marquise.”

“And to her niece?”

“Mademoiselle St. Clair?  That is as Monsieur wills,” he laughed.

“I do not understand your merriment.”

“Pardon, Monsieur, but there are not many who crave presentation to Mademoiselle.  You have not heard of her?”

“Nothing but her name.”

“Think, Monsieur, of a large woman with black hair and complexion more swart than beautiful, with large hands that could clasp mine and hide them, and feet flat and heavy; a figure that is no figure, all its lines pressed from within out of place and which shakes as she walks; a voice whose whisper is raucous.  Then, Monsieur, conceive this woman unaware of her defects, who simpers and attempts to use her dull eyes in fascination.  That is Mademoiselle St. Clair.”