“You made a mistake?”

“There was no mistake.  The woman was Pauline Vaison, a woman Lucien Bruslart has promised to marry.  The mob found her in his apartment, took her for the aristocrat, and carried her to prison in the place of mademoiselle.  You are Bruslart’s friend and accomplice.  I ask you again, where is Jeanne St. Clair?”

It never occurred to Richard Barrington that Latour might be deceiving him, and for the moment he had no thought how he could best convince Latour that he was innocent of any deception.  He was utterly overwhelmed by the news.  Deep down in his heart he had never really trusted Lucien Bruslart, and all this time Jeanne had been in his hands.  Bruslart then had lied from the first, had imposed upon him his feigned grief, and all the time he had been perfecting some foul plot.  What had become of Jeanne?  The horrible possibilities unnerved him, took the heart out of him.  He was as a man who when brought face to face with peril is afraid, who shrinks back and would fly if he could.  Latour knew nothing of the thoughts rushing through Barrington’s brain, he only saw a man with the courage suddenly gone out of him; he put his own construction upon his manner and laughed.

“It is always unpleasant when the time comes to pay for such deceit,” he said.

“I swear to you”

“Spare yourself.  I have asked you a question.  I want it answered.”

“I don’t know where she is.  I wish to Heaven I did.”

“It suits my purpose to give you time to think better of your answer,” said Latour.  “You shall even buy your miserable life by telling the truth.  When you tell me where Mademoiselle St. Clair is, you shall leave this prison, not before.  I will even do something to get you safely out of Paris and to the seacoast.”

“I tell you I do not know.  Find Bruslart, ask him.”

“I have you safe, that is enough; and I would advise you to come to my terms quickly.  There is no escape except through me.  Your letter has silenced your servant, and his patience is likely to outlast mine.  Tell the truth quickly, Monsieur Barrington; it will be safer.”

Latour turned to the door, but Barrington sprang toward him and caught him by the arm.

“Are you mad?  Think of her; she is in Bruslart’s hands.”

Latour wrenched himself free, and as he turned sharply there was a pistol in his hand.

“Stand where you are!  I would shoot you like a dog rather than let you escape.”

“The devil take you for a fool!” exclaimed Barrington.  “I thought I had a man to deal with!” and he turned his back upon Latour, who went out of the room, locking the door after him.