“No,” Mercier answered.  It was evidently the answer Latour wished to receive, and in a sense it was true.  Mercier had not proclaimed at the barrier that he had been outwitted, and no one knew what business had taken him from Paris; but he had said that he believed an emigre in the disguise of a market woman had entered the city that morning.  “What emigre?” he was asked.  “Mademoiselle St. Clair,” he had answered.  The guard said nothing, no more inclined to confess to carelessness than Mercier was, and Mercier and Dubois had ridden on convinced that mademoiselle was not in Paris.  At the barrier his remarks might have been taken for badinage, a sneer at the vigilance which was kept, had not the entrance of the quarreling market woman been remembered.

“If she is in Paris, we shall find her,” said Latour.

“It is more likely she had ridden back to Beauvais,” said Dubois.  “If she is wise that is the way she has taken.”

“Women in love are not always wise,” said Latour.

“I am afraid, citizen, this unfortunate business has interfered with your plans.  I am sorry.  We had managed the whole affair so excellently.”  Mercier was so relieved to find Latour so calm that he was inclined to swagger.

“Most excellently,” was the answer.  “I am as far from having mademoiselle in my power as I was when you started.”

“Citizen—­”

“Is there need to say more?” Latour asked sharply.  “I shall have other work for you presently; see that it is accomplished better.  Did you meet Jacques Sabatier on the road this morning?”

“No, citizen.  We have not seen him since he met us at the tavern yesterday and rode to Paris for your instructions.  This morning we left the road several times to make sure the fugitives were not hidden in some shed or hollow.  If he travelled to the Lion d’Or that is how we must have missed him.”

“Come to me to-night at nine,” he said, dismissing them.  His anger was great, but it did not suit him to say more.

This was all Latour knew when he chanced upon Richard Barrington in the afternoon.  He was thinking of mademoiselle when the noise of the approaching crowd reached him, and then he noticed the tall, strongly knit figure of the man just before him.  A second glance convinced him that this was the American; therefore mademoiselle was in Paris.  This was the man who had brought all his scheming to naught; his enemy, a daring and dangerous foe.  He noted the expression on Barrington’s face as the crowd went by, saw the intention in his eyes.  In another moment his enemy might be destroyed, gashed with pikes, trampled under foot, yet Latour put out his hand and stopped him.  Why?  Latour could not see even his enemy throw his life away so uselessly.  He hardly gave a thought to the wretched prisoner in the coach, but his interest was keen in the man who went with him to the wine shop.  It was no mere phrase when he said he was a man after his own heart, he meant it.  Their paths in life might be antagonistic, their ideals diametrically opposed, yet in both men there was purpose and determination, a struggle towards great achievement, a definite end to strive after.  Circumstances might make them the deadliest of foes, but there was a strong and natural desire for friendship as they clasped hands.