Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule
through her tears with great difficulty, paid for
the wine. As she did so, Solomon turned to
the followers of the Good Republican Brutus of
Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation
in the French language, which caused them
all to relapse into their former places and
pursuits.

"Now," said Solomon, stopping at the dark
street corner, "what do you want?"

"How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing
has ever turned my love away from!" cried Miss
Pross, "to give me such a greeting, and show
me no affection."

"There. Confound it! There," said Solomon,
making a dab at Miss Pross's lips with his
own. "Now are you content?"

Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in
silence.

"If you expect me to be surprised," said her
brother Solomon, "I am not surprised; I knew
you were here; I know of most people who are
here. If you really don't want to endanger my
existence—which I half believe you do—go
your ways as soon as possible, and let me go
mine. I am busy. I am an official."

"My English brother Solomon," mourned
Miss Pross, casting up her tear-fraught eyes,
"that had the makings in him of one of the
best and greatest of men in his native country,
an official among foreigners, and such foreigners!
I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy
lying in his——-"

"I said so!" cried her brother, interrupting.
"I knew it! You want to be the death of me.
I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister.
Just as I am getting on!"

"The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!"
cried Miss Pross. "Far rather would I never
see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever
loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one
affectionate word to me, and tell me there
is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I
will detain you no longer."

Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement
between them had come of any culpability
of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for
a fact, years ago, in the quiet corner in Soho,
that this precious brother had spent her money
and left her!

He was saying the affectionate word, however,
with a far more grudging condescension
and patronage than he could have shown if their
relative merits and positions had been reversed
(which is invariably the case, all the world over),
when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the
shoulder, hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed
with the following singular question:

"I say! Might I ask the favour? As to
whether your name is John Solomon, or Solomon
John?"

The official turned towards him with sudden
distrust. He had not previously uttered a
word.

"Come!" said Mr. Cruncher. "Speak out,
you know." (Which, by the way, was more
than he could do himself.) "John Solomon, or
Solomon John? She calls you Solomon, and
she must know, being your sister. And / know
you're John, you know. Which of the two goes
first? And regarding that name of Pross,
likewise. That warn't your name over the water."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't
call to mind what your name was, over the
water."

"No!" sneered Solomon.

"No. But I'll swear it was a name of two
syllables.

"Indeed?"

"Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know
you. You was a spy-witness at the Bailey.
What in the name of the Father of Lies, own
father to yourself was you called at that time?"

"Barsad," said another voice, striking in.

"That's the name for a thousand pound!"
cried Jerry.

The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton.
He had his hands behind him under the
skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr.
Cruncher's elbow as negligently as he might
have stood at the Old Bailey itself.

"Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I
arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his surprise, yesterday
evening; we agreed that I would not present
myself elsewhere until all was well, or unless I
could be useful; I present myself here, to beg
a little talk with your brother. I wish you had
a better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I
wish for your sake Mr. Barsad was not a Sheep
of the Prisons."

Sheep was the cant word of the time for a
spy, under the gaolers. The spy, who was pale,
turned paler, and asked him how he dared——

"I'll tell you," said Sydney. "I lighted on
you, Mr. Barsad, coming out of the prison of
the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the
walls, an hour or more ago. You have a face
to be remembered, and I remember faces well.
Made curious by seeing you in that connexion,
and having a reason, to which you are no stranger,
for associating you with the misfortunes of
a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your
direction. I walked into the wine-shop here,
close after you, and sat near you. I had no
difficulty in deducing from your unreserved
conversation, and the rumour openly going about
among your admirers, the nature of your calling.
And gradually, what I had done at random,
seemed to shape itself into a purpose, Mr.
Barsad."

"What purpose?" the spy asked.

"It would be troublesome, and might be
dangerous, to explain in the street. Could you
favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of
your company—at the office of Tellson's Bank,
for instance?"

"Under a threat?"

"Oh! Did I say that!"

"Then why should I go there?"

"Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you
can't."

"Do you mean that you won't say, sir?" the
spy irresolutely asked.