“Yes.  I have means of knowing that such a letter could not be forged.”

“You shall have the letter to-morrow morning.  Where shall I send it?”

“I will come here for it,” Seth answered.

“An excellent idea.  You will be able to tell me at once whether you are satisfied,” said Latour, rising and going to the door, which he threw open with a bow.  “The lion’s den is not so dangerous a place as you imagined.”

“Monsieur, I shall think well of you until to-morrow,” said Seth.

“And afterward, I hope,” Latour returned.

The smile faded from Latour’s face as he went back into his room, and an expression of perplexity took its place.  This was a new and unexpected danger.  Probably he was honest, but it was hardly likely that Barrington had told the whole truth to his servant.  After a little while spent in thought and calculation, Latour went upstairs to the rooms above his own.  He knocked at the door, then turned the key and entered.

Pauline Vaison showed no pleasure at the visit, but there was unmistakable relief.  It was quite evident that she half expected a worse enemy.

“Have you come to release me, citizen?” she asked, doing her utmost to appear indifferent.

“You are only a prisoner for your own safety.”

“You have already said so, but I cannot understand of what importance I am to the State.”

“Mademoiselle, I was a little rough with you when you were first brought here,” said Latour.  “I believed you were a party to a plot, to defeat which you were smuggled out of the Abbaye Prison.  You told me a story which, frankly, I did not believe, but from further knowledge I am inclined to alter my opinion.  Your story was this, correct me if I am wrong in any detail:  You went one morning to visit Citizen Bruslart, he was out and you waited for him, you have done the same before.  The house was suddenly invaded and you were arrested as an aristocrat, one Mademoiselle Jeanne St. Clair.  You protested, but you were not believed.  Is that so?”

“I was laughed at and insulted,” said Pauline.

“Citizen Bruslart is a friend of yours?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever heard that he was to marry Jeanne St. Clair?”

“Whatever he once intended, I have the best reason for knowing that he has changed his mind.  Lucien Bruslart is to marry me.”

Latour showed no surprise.  “Have you ever seen this Jeanne St. Clair?” he asked.

“Never.”

“You were not voluntarily there that day in her place, so that she might escape?”

“No.  I am a patriot and hate all aristocrats.  I am woman enough to hate this one particularly since Lucien once cared for her.”

“When one’s life is at stake, it is easy to lie if a lie will be useful, but I believe you, citizeness,” said Latour.  “I wish to be your friend, that kind of friend who is honest even if honesty gives pain.  First, then, it is absolutely necessary that you remain here in hiding for a little while.  The mob which carried you to prison knows you have escaped.  You are being hunted for.  So beautiful a woman cannot pass unnoticed.  You would be recognized, and since you are still believed to be Mademoiselle St. Clair, I doubt not the nearest lantern would be your destination.”