A pair of haggard eyes looked at the questioner, and a very faint voice replied, “Yes, I am working.”

“Here is a visitor.  Show him that shoe and tell him the maker’s name.”

There was a long pause, and the shoemaker asked, “What did you say?”

Defarge repeated his words.

“It is a lady’s shoe,” answered the shoemaker.

“And the maker’s name?”

“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”

“Dr. Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly at him, “do you remember nothing of me?  Do you remember nothing of Defarge—­your old servant?”

As the Bastille captive of many years gazed at them, marks of intelligence forced themselves through the mist that had fallen on him.  They were fainter; they were gone, but they had been there.  The young lady moved forward, with tears streaming from her eyes, and kissed him.  He took up her golden hair, and looked at it; then drew from his breast a folded rag, and opened it carefully.  It contained a little quantity of hair.  He took the girl’s hair into his hand again.

“It is the same!  How can it be?  She had a fear of my going that night. Was it you?” He turned upon her with frightful suddenness.  But his vigour swiftly died out, and he gloomily shook his head.  “No, no, no!  It can’t be!”

She fell on her knees and clasped his neck.

“If you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that was once sweet music to your ears, weep for it—­weep for it!  Thank God!” she cried.  “I feel his sacred tears upon my face!  Leave us here,” she said.  And, as the darkness closed in, they left father and daughter together.

They came back at night.  A coach stood outside the courtyard, and the lately released prisoner, in scared, blank wonder, began the journey that was to end in England and rest.

II.—­The Jackal

In the dimly-lighted passages of the Old Bailey, Dr. Manette, his daughter, and Mr. Lorry stood by Mr. Charles Darnay—­just acquitted on a charge of high treason—­congratulating him on his escape from death.

It was not difficult to recognise in Dr. Manette, intellectual of face and upright in bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in Paris.  He and his daughter had been unwilling witnesses for the prosecution, called to give evidence that might be distorted into corroboration of a paid spy’s falsehoods as to Darnay’s dealings with the French king.

Darnay kissed Lucie Manette’s hand fervently and gratefully, and warmly thanked his counsel, Mr. Stryver.  As he watched them go, a person who had been leaning against the wall stepped up to him.  It was Mr. Carton, a barrister, who had sat throughout the trial with his whole attention seemingly concentrated upon the ceiling of the court.  Everybody had been struck with the extraordinary resemblance, cleverly used by the defending counsel to confound a witness, between Mr. Carton and Mr. Darnay.  Mr. Carton was shabbily dressed, and did not appear to be quite sober.