“I have heard of him,” said Barrington, quickly, “but surely he is of the people.  I think I have heard him praised as an honest patriot.”

“He is, yet he was an aristocrat.”

“You speak as though you had little faith in him.”

“No, no, you judge too hastily.  I am of the people, yet, as you may have gathered, not wholly with the people.  I take it that such is monsieur’s position, too.  Personally, I have not much faith in an aristocrat turned patriot, that is all.”

“Nor I, monsieur; still, I know nothing of this Monsieur Bruslart, so can venture no opinion.”

“You are a stranger in Paris?”

“Yes.”

“Pardon, monsieur, I am not inquisitive.  I only wish to prove myself friendly.  Paris is somewhat dangerous for strangers.”

“Even for those who take no interest in one side or the other?” asked Barrington.

“Most assuredly, for such men are likely to be on private business, and private business smacks of secrecy, and those who govern dislike all secrets except their own.”

“I am not afraid.  It is a habit rather than a virtue.”

“I saw your fearlessness.  It impressed me,” the man answered, earnestly.  “I saw also that others had noted you as well.  It would perhaps be wise to remember that besides hunting for the woman who has come back to Paris, they are hunting for the man who helped her so successfully.  Perhaps some of the men who were at the barriers this morning may remember him.”

“What more probable?” said Barrington.  “It may be that this man was not such a friend to the woman as we have imagined.  He may have had sinister designs in bringing her into Paris.”

The man put down his glass rather sharply.  The idea evidently produced some effect upon him.

“I cannot believe that,” he said.

“I do not like to think so,” Barrington returned.

For a few moments they looked squarely into each other’s faces.  Then the man laid his hand upon the table, palm uppermost.

“Ah!  It is certain we are kindred spirits, monsieur.  We may have our own secrets, our interests may perhaps have points of antagonism, but we are both fearless.  You are a man after my own heart.  Will you take my hand?”

Barrington grasped his hand across the little table.

“Should we ever be enemies, let us remember this wine shop and this hand clasp.  The recollection may help us both.  For you there is danger, coming perhaps from the very quarter where you least expect it.  I may be useful to you then.  In the Rue Valette there is a baker’s shop; if you inquire there for one, Raymond Latour, you shall find a welcome,” and before Barrington could make any answer, he passed out into the street.

The man knew him, that was evident, knew that he had helped mademoiselle into Paris.  Was he a friend or an enemy?  He had warned him of danger, and his parting words had had something of the nature of a compact in them.  What could bind this man to him in any way unless the emigre he was interested in was Mademoiselle St. Clair?  Surely that was where the truth lay.  To this man Latour she stood for something.