Trudaine looked back at him steadily; and taking out his handkerchief, passed it over the soiled cover of the book.

“If I could wipe the stain of your blood off my conscience as easily as I can wipe the stain of your boot off this book,” he said quietly, “you should not live another hour.  Don’t cry, Rose,” he continued, turning again to his sister:  “I will take care of your book for you until you can keep it yourself.”

“You will do this! you will do that!” cried Danville, growing more and more exasperated, and letting his anger got the better even of his cunning now.  “Talk less confidently of the future—­you don’t know what it has in store for you.  Govern your tongue when you are in my presence; a day may come when you will want my help—­my help; do you hear that?”

Trudaine turned his face from his sister, as if he feared to let her see it when those words were spoken.

“The man who followed me to-day was a spy—­Danville’s spy!” That thought flashed across his mind, but he gave it no utterance.  There was an instant’s pause of silence; and through it there came heavily on the still night air the rumbling of distant wheels.  The sound advanced nearer and nearer—­advanced and ceased under the window.

Danville hurried to it, and looked out eagerly.  “I have not hastened my return without reason.  I wouldn’t have missed this arrest for anything!” thought he, peering into the night.

The stars were out, but there was no moon.  He could not recognize either the coach or the persons who got out of it, and he turned again into the interior of the room.  His wife had sunk into a chair, her brother was locking up in a cabinet the book which he had promised to take care of for her.  The dead silence made the noise of slowly ascending footsteps on the stairs painfully audible.  At last the door opened softly.

“Citizen Danville, health and fraternity!” said Lomaque, appearing in the doorway, followed by his agents.  “Citizen Louis Trudaine?” he continued, beginning with the usual form.

Rose started out of her chair; but her brother’s hand was on her lips before she could speak.

“My name is Louis Trudaine,” he answered.

“Charles!” cried his sister, breaking from him and appealing to her husband, “who are these men?  What are they here for?”

He gave her no answer.

“Louis Trudaine,” said Lomaque, slowly, drawing the order from his pocket, “in the name of the Republic, I arrest you.”

“Rose, come back,” cried Trudaine.

It was too late; she had broken from him, and in the recklessness of terror, had seized her husband by the arm.

“Save him!” she cried.  “Save him, by all you hold dearest in the world!  You are that man’s superior, Charles—­order him from the room!”

Danville roughly shook her hand off his arm.

“Lomaque is doing his duty.  Yes,” he added, with a glance of malicious triumph at Trudaine, “yes, doing his duty.  Look at me as you please—­your looks won’t move me.  I denounced you!  I admit it—­I glory in it!  I have rid myself of an enemy, and the State of a bad citizen.  Remember your secret visits to the house in the Rue de Clery!”