The coach door opened.  The man inside got out quickly and helped the woman to descend.

“Keep silent, mademoiselle; it is all arranged,” he whispered, and in a few moments he had divested himself of his coat and hat, of everything which marked him as an officer of the Convention, and even of the shaggy hair which hung about his eyes and neck, and threw all this disguise into the coach.  He was another man altogether.  “Come; we must walk.  The worst danger is past.”

The man who had sat on the box was bending over the coachman.  He said nothing, did not even look up as the two went swiftly down the alley.  When they had gone he, too, divested himself of everything that proved him an officer of the Convention and of the wig which had concealed his identity.  These he put into the coach.  Then he lifted the unconscious driver from the ground and put him into the coach also, closing the door upon him.  The horse had not attempted to move.  He was a tired, worn-out beast, glad to rest when and where he could.  He was unlikely to move until his master roused to make him, and the dawn might be no longer young when that happened, unless some stray pedestrian should chance down that deserted way.

For an hour that evening Raymond Latour plied his friends and fellow patriots with wine.  So glorious an hour seemed of long duration.  In case of accident there would be a score of good witnesses to swear that their friend the deputy had been drinking with them all the evening.  Under the influence of wine and loud patriotism the flight of time is of no account.

It was close on midnight when Latour entered the alley by the baker’s shop in the Rue Valette, walking slowly.  Seated at the top of the stairs he found Sabatier.

“Yes, and asleep probably,” said Sabatier, answering the question in his eyes.

“It was well done,” said Latour.  “Come to me early to-morrow.  This man Barrington may be suspected and must be warned.”

“And Bruslart?”

“Yes, to-morrow we must think of him, too.  Good night, citizen.”

Sabatier went down the stairs, and Latour entered his room.

Midnight!  Was she yet asleep?  Sabatier had told her nothing except that she was safe, and that the man who had planned her rescue would come to her and explain everything.  She would think it was Lucien Bruslart.  Who would be so likely to run such risk for her sake?  Only one other man might occur to her, the man who had already done so much to help her—­Richard Barrington.  Would she be likely to sleep easily to-night?  No.  Surely she was wide awake, waiting and watching.