“He’ll do until the doctor comes to-morrow,” said Seth, as he presently found Barrington at the frugal meal.

The landlord apologized for the frugality, but it was all he could do.

“May I never face less when I am hungry,” said Barrington.  “You saw this man to-day, landlord, you say?”

“Yes.  I told you that four men cursed me and my wine.  They had been here an hour or more, talking of what was going forward in Paris, and of some business which they were engaged upon.  I took little note of what they said, for every one is full of important business in these days, monsieur, but the man who lies upstairs presently rode past.  I saw him from this window, and my four guests saw him, too.  They laughed and settled their score, and five minutes later had brought their horses from the stable behind the inn and were riding in the direction he had taken.”

“And attacked him a little later, no doubt.”

“It would seem so,” said the landlord.

“Should they return, keep it a secret that you have a wounded man in the house.  Will that purchase your silence?”

The landlord looked at the coins Barrington dropped into his hand.

“Thank you, monsieur, you may depend upon it that no one shall know.”

Seth presently went to see the patient again, and returned in a few moments to say he was conscious.

“I told him where we found him, and he wants to see you, Master Richard.”

“Your doctoring must be wonderfully efficacious, Seth.”

“Brandy is a good medicine,” was the answer; “but the man’s in a bad way.  He may quiet down after he’s seen you.”

The man moved slightly as Barrington entered the room, and when he spoke his words came slowly and in a whisper, yet with some eagerness.

“They left me for dead, monsieur; they were disturbed, perhaps.”

“Why did they attack you?”

“I was carrying a message.”

“A letter—­and they stole it?” asked Barrington.

“No, a message.  It was not safe to write.”

“To whom was the message?”

“To a woman, my mistress, from her lover.  He is in the hands of the rabble, and only she can save him.  For the love of Heaven, monsieur, take the message to her.  I cannot go.”

“What is her name?” Barrington asked.

“Mademoiselle St. Clair.”

“Certainly, she shall have it.  How shall I make her understand?”

“Say Lucien prays her to come to Paris.  In my coat yonder, in the lining of the collar, is a little gold star, her gift to him.  Say Rouzet gave it to you because he could travel no farther.  She will understand.  You must go warily, and by an indirect road, or they will follow you as they did me.”

“And where shall I find Mademoiselle St. Clair?”

“At the Chateau of Beauvais, hard by Lausanne, across the frontier.”

“Lausanne!  Switzerland!”