He had traversed three-parts of its length in safety when from two side streets crowds came simultaneously.  To hurry might raise suspicion, to turn back most certainly would; so Barrington kept on, not increasing his pace, but with his eyes and ears keenly alive.  His steady pace exactly brought him into the midst of those who were at the heads of these two crowds, and he was ready to receive and return any salutation or coarse pleasantry which might be offered to him, when he found himself carried in a rush to one side of the street.  Between these two crowds there was some quarrel, possibly no more than an hour old, and men and women flew at one another in a fury.  Being at the edge of the fight Barrington had no great difficulty in extricating himself, and no need to defend himself beyond an arm flung out to avoid the blow from a stick.  So fully were they engaged in their fight that they were unlikely to take much notice of him, and he was congratulating himself on his escape when one out of the many faces about him suddenly seemed to stand out distinct from all the rest.  Barrington did not know the face, had never seen the man before that he was aware of, but it fascinated him.  He was obliged to stare back into the eyes fixed upon him, and knew instinctively that he was in peril.

“An aristocrat!”

The exclamation burst out like the report of a pistol.

“The American!”

The noise of the fight sank in a kind of sob as the roar of a breaking wave sinks with an angry swish back into silence; and as there is a pause before the next wave is flung upward to break and roar, so was there a pause now.  Then came the yell of fury, faction quarrel forgotten.  They were all of one mind in a moment.

“An aristocrat!  The American!  The American!”

In the moment of pause Barrington had thrust aside a man who seemed to bar his way, and had started to run.  He was a score of yards to the good; with fortune on his side he would turn into the Rue Charonne well ahead of all but two of his pursuers; an open doorway, an alley, some hiding-place might present itself.  Escape was not probable, but there was a chance, that bare chance which keeps the courage steady.

[Illustration:  Escape was not probable, but there was a chance.]

As he rushed into the Rue Charonne, the yelling chorus behind him, a new difficulty faced him.  Just before him was the Chat Rouge, the one place in all Paris that must not attract the attention of the mob to-night.  An archway was beside him and he turned into it.

“The American!  The American!”

The bloodhounds were in the street.  Would they miss this archway?  It was unlikely.

“Quick!” said a voice in his ear as he was dragged back against the wall.  “There is straw below.  Jump!”

The crowd was rushing past the archway, but some stopped to examine it as Barrington jumped down, falling on his hands and knees onto a bed of straw.