Raymond Latour went quietly up the next flight of stairs to the room above his own which he had furnished and made ready with such infinite trouble.  She was not so safe in these rooms as she would have been had he succeeded in bringing her there in the first instance, straight from the Lion d’Or as he had intended.  Bruslart could not have suspected him then as he must certainly do now; but Bruslart could only work in secret, he dare not speak openly, and Barrington was powerless.  To-night Latour would say little.  He would look upon her for a moment, be assured that she had everything for her comfort, proclaim himself only as one of those who had had a part in her rescue, and receive some thanks.  This would be enough for to-night.

The key was in the lock on the outside of the door.  Latour knocked before turning it.

“Mademoiselle.”

“Come in.”

The answer was faint.  She was in the inner room.  Even when told to enter, Latour hesitated.  This was a crisis in his life, fully understood and appreciated.  Here was the accomplishment of something he had labored for; it was natural to hesitate.  Then he turned the key and went in.

The room was in darkness, but the light of a candle came from the inner room, and the next moment the door opened wide and a woman stood there, a beautiful woman, dark in hair and eyes, with figure as lissom as a young animal, poised just now half expectantly, half in fear.

A sharp exclamation came from Latour’s lips as he leaned forward to look at her.

“Monsieur, I—­” and then a flush of anger came into her face.  “Am I still to be insulted?”

“In the devil’s name, woman, who are you?”

Latour had crossed the space between them in a hasty stride or two, and his fingers were tightly round the woman’s wrist.

“What right—­”

“Who are you?  Answer.”

For a moment longer she was defiant, even made a feeble struggle to free herself, but the man’s eyes were upon her and she was compelled to look into them.  Anger blazed in them, anger was in every line of his set face.  She had seen this man before, knew he was Raymond Latour, knew his power, and she was afraid.

“I am Pauline Vaison,” she said in a low tone.

CHAPTER XVI

THE TAVERN AT THE CHAT ROUGE

Terribly leaden-footed had this week of waiting been to Richard Barrington.  He had not seen Lucien Bruslart, although each afternoon he had passed the wine shop with the sign of the three barrels.  He had nothing to occupy him, and for most of the day he remained within doors.  He shrank from witnessing the squalor and savagery which might at any moment be met in the streets; he could not bear the sight or the sound of those slowly rolling tumbrils carrying their wretched victims to the guillotine, and he would not go in the direction of the Place de la Revolution even when there was no yelling crowd there, when the scaffold was untenanted and the great knife still.  Another consideration kept him indoors.  His constant presence in the streets might serve to make his face and figure familiar, and this would be a disadvantage if he were presently to help Mademoiselle St. Clair to escape from Paris.