“You would have thrown your life away had I not stopped you,” said the stranger.

“Perhaps.  I hardly know.”

“Yet it is not so rare a sight.”

“At least I have not grown used to it,” Barrington answered.

“That is difficult,” said the man.  “I have seen more of it than you, but I have learned to hide my feelings.  The first time I was like you.  Even now I clinch my teeth and remain inactive with difficulty.  This tends to make us conspicuous, citizen.  We must be either victims or executioners to be in the fashion.  Some of us have friends, perhaps, who may easily chance to be victims.”

“True.”

“I have,” said the man.  “It is pleasant to meet one who has a kindred interest.”

“I cannot claim so much as that,” said Barrington.

“That sudden stiffening of yours told its tale,” and the man smiled a little.  “Had I not been convinced I hardly dared have said so much.”

“Doubtless there was some danger,” laughed Barrington, “but at least I am not a spy or an informer.  The thought of a woman in such a crowd hurt me, citizen.”

“Some time we might be of service to each other,” the man returned.  “It is good to have a friend one can trust in these days.  Unless I am much mistaken, I can be of service to you.  My way is the same as yours if you will allow it.  There is a shop yonder where the wine is good and where, until that shouting crowd comes home again, we shall attract no notice.”

How could this man be of service to him?  For a moment he hesitated, scenting danger, but the next he had turned to walk with his new companion.  He looked honest and might tell him something of value.

They entered the wine shop which was empty, and were served.

“Have you a toast, monsieur?”

“To the safety of that woman,” said Barrington.

“I drink it.  To the safety of a woman.”

Barrington did not notice the slight difference in the toast; the words were hurriedly spoken and in a low tone.

“Do you know, monsieur, that only this morning an emigre returned to Paris disguised as a market woman?”

“What folly!” Barrington said.  “Does she chance to be the friend you are interested in?”

“My friend is an emigre, therefore I am a little sorry for this one,” was the answer.  “I hear that careful search is being made for her.  Such a search can hardly fail to be successful.”

“She may have good friends.”

“She has, I understand.  One, at least, the man who helped her into Paris.”

“He had better have helped her to keep out of it,” Barrington returned, “and yet, she may have come with some high purpose and he has served her cleverly.  Is it dangerous to drink to his good health, monsieur? for I like a man who is a man even though he be my enemy.”

“There is no danger, I think,” and the man drank.  “She has another friend, too, one Lucien Bruslart.”