Barrington remained in the wine shop for some little time, carefully examining every point of his adventure.  Certainly his movements would be watched; certainly this Raymond Latour might be useful to him.  When he went into the street presently he looked carelessly to right and left, wondering which of the people in sight was bent on following him.

“Whatever their reward is to be they shall do something to earn it,” he murmured, smiling, and turning into a side street he did his best to escape watchful eyes.

At the hour appointed he was at Monsieur Bruslart’s door.  The servant asked him several questions before he admitted that his master was in.  Monsieur Bruslart was cautious.  Was it possible that mademoiselle was still in the house?  If Barrington forgot her danger for a moment as he thought of the delight it would be to him to see her again, was he very blameworthy?

The servant announced him.

Pale, dishevelled, trembling with excitement, Bruslart met him.  A nervous hand gripped his arm.

“Monsieur’ Barrington, you—­”

“What is it?  In Heaven’s name what is it?”

“While I was gone, they came.  Look at the room, still dirty with them, still reeking of them.  They took her.  Jeanne is a prisoner, and I—­I am almost mad.”

Barrington gasped as a man who receives a heavy blow.  His hand fell on a chair-back to steady himself.  He saw nothing but that filthy crowd, and that coach swaying in the midst of it.  Jeanne was the woman within, and he had made no effort to save her.

CHAPTER XII

CITIZEN BRUSLART

The two men stared at each other with unseeing eyes, neither conscious, it would seem, of the other’s presence.  The circumstances called for prompt action, for swift decision, for keen and subtle energy, yet they were silent, helpless, looking into vacancy, and seeing visions.

Suddenly Lucien sat down and let his head fall upon his arms thrown out across the table, a personification of despair which might take the heart out of any observer.  The action served, however, to bring.  Barrington back into the present, to conserve his energies, to make him a man of action again.  His frame stiffened, much as it had done that afternoon when the crowd with the coach in its midst had passed him.  Then came the memory of the restraining hand laid on his arm.  It acquired a new significance.

“Tell me the whole story,” he said.  “There is no time to lose.”

“I was a fool.  Lafayette was right.  I ought never to have brought her here,” wailed Bruslart, utter despair in his voice; and then, after a moment’s pause, he went on with desperate energy as though he had a difficult confession to make and must tell it in a rush of words, or be afraid to tell it at all.  “It took me more than two hours to arrange with my friend.  He was out when I got there and I had to wait, then he was a long time discussing the best means of securing mademoiselle’s safety, and how she could most easily be taken to his house unseen.  Nearer four hours had passed than two when I returned to find Jeanne gone.”