In the house of Monsieur Fargeau life ran a smooth and even course, if not entirely ignorant of the revolution, at least having no personal concern with it.  The shouting mob did not penetrate into this quiet corner of the city.  Monsieur Fargeau knew nothing of politics, and was ignorant of the very names of many of those members of the Convention who were filling distant parts of Europe with horror and loathing.  Some people had lost their lives, he was aware of that; possibly they had only met with their deserts, he did not know.  The times were hard, but he was prepared for a rainy day, and could afford to wait until business improved again.  To do the Marquis de Lafayette a service he had let rooms to two Americans, who paid him well, who said pleasant things to his wife and children when they met them on the stairs, and beyond this he thought or cared little about them.  He knew nothing of their reason for being in Paris, and had no idea that he was harboring dangerous characters.  Both Barrington and Seth had been careful to leave and return to their lodgings cautiously, and by a roundabout route, and were convinced that if they were watched they had succeeded in baffling the spies in discovering their hiding place.  Barrington was therefore rather startled one afternoon when, as he returned from his daily walk past the wine shop, a man suddenly came from a doorway and spoke his name in a low tone.

“It is Monsieur Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“You may remember me, monsieur.  I am a servant to Monsieur de Lafayette.”

“Yes, I thought I recognized your face.  You have a message for me?”

“My master has left Paris, monsieur.  There was a rumor that he was in the city, and he was in danger of arrest.  He has rejoined the army in the North, but it may not be possible for him to stay there.  If not, he will ride across the Belgian frontier.”

“It is bad news?” said Barrington.

“Yes, monsieur, and I was to say to you that you would do well to leave Paris at the first opportunity.  There is no place for an honest man to-day in France.  My master told me to say that.”

This news added to Barrington’s feeling of impotence, and was depressing.  Had his days been full of active danger it would not have had such an effect upon him.  Naturally disposed to see the silver lining of every cloud, he was unable to detect it now.  Instead, his mind was full of questions.  Was Bruslart honest?  Was he leaving no stone unturned to release Mademoiselle St. Clair?  Had Raymond Latour lied to him?  Was this week of waiting merely a pretext in order that he might have time to render the prisoner’s acquittal absolutely impossible?”

“I’d trust this man Latour before I would Bruslart,” Seth said, when Barrington appealed to him, but in such a tone that he did not appear really to trust either of them.

“And at the end of this week what are we to do if mademoiselle is still a prisoner?”