“Now, Papa Lenegre,” he said lightly, “tell me why you wore such a solemn air when you let me in just now.”

“Because, milor,” replied the old man quietly, “that d——­d concierge, Jean Baptiste, is a black-hearted traitor.”

Sir Percy laughed, his merry, infectious laugh.

“You mean that while he has been pocketing bribes from me, he has denounced me to the Committee.”

Pere Lenegre nodded:  “I only heard it this morning,” he said, “from one or two threatening words the treacherous brute let fall.  He knows that you lodge in the Place des Trois Maries, and that you come here frequently.  I would have given my life to warn you then and there,” continued the old man with touching earnestness, “but I didn’t know where to find you.  All I knew was that you were looking after Pierre.”

Even while the man spoke there darted from beneath the Englishman’s heavy lids a quick look like a flash of sudden and brilliant light out of the lazy depths of his merry blue eyes; it was one of those glances of pure delight and exultation which light up the eyes of the true soldier when there is serious fighting to be done.

“La, man,” he said gaily, “there was no cause to worry.  Pierre is safe, remember that!  As for me,” he added with that wonderful insouciance which caused him to risk his life a hundred times a day with a shrug of his broad shoulders and a smile upon his lips; “as for me, I’ll look after myself, never fear.”

He paused awhile, then added gravely:  “So long as you are safe, my good Lenegre, and petite maman, and Rosette.”

Whereupon the old man was silent, petite maman murmured a short prayer, and Rosette began to cry.  The hero of a thousand gallant rescues had received his answer.

“You, too, are on the black list, Pere Lenegre?” he asked quietly.

The old man nodded.

“How do you know?” queried the Englishman.

“Through Jean Baptiste, milor.”

“Still that demmed concierge,” muttered Sir Percy.

“He frightened petite maman with it all this morning, saying that he knew my name was down on the Sectional Committee’s list as a ‘suspect.’  That’s when he let fall a word or two about you, milor.  He said it is known that Pierre has escaped from justice, and that you helped him to it.

“I am sure that we shall get a domiciliary visit presently,” continued Pere Lenegre, after a slight pause.  “The gendarmes have not yet been, but I fancy that already this morning early I saw one or two of the Committee’s spies hanging about the house, and when I went to the workshop I was followed all the time.”

The Englishman looked grave:  “And tell me,” he said, “have you got anything in this place that may prove compromising to any of you?”

“No, milor.  But, as Jean Baptiste said, the Sectional Committee know about Pierre.  It is because of my son that I am suspect.”

The old man spoke quite quietly, very simply, like a philosopher who has long ago learned to put behind him the fear of death.  Nor did petite maman cry or lament.  Her thoughts were for the brave milor who had saved her boy; but her fears for her old man left her dry-eyed and dumb with grief.