"You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad.
I won't."

Carton's negligent recklessness of manner
came powerfully in aid of his quickness and
skill, in such a business as he had in his secret
mind, and with such a man as he had to do
with. His practised eye saw it, and made the
most of it.

"Now, I told you so," said the spy, casting a
reproachful look at his sister; "if any trouble
comes of this, it's your doing."

"Come, come, Mr. Barsad!" exclaimed Sydney.
"Don't be ungrateful. But for my great
respect for your sister, I might not have led up
so pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to
make for our mutual satisfaction. Do you go
with me to the Bank?"

"I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes,
I'll go with you."

"I propose that we first conduct your sister
safely to the corner of her own street. Let me take
your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,
at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected;
and as your escort knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite
him to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are we ready?
Come then!"

Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to
the end of her life remembered, that as she
pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked
up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to
Solomon, there was a braced purpose in the arm
and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not
only contradicted his light manner, but changed
and raised the man. She was too much occupied
then, with fears for the brother who so
little deserved her affection, and with Sydney's
friendly reassurances, adequately to heed what
she observed.

They left her at the corner of the street, and
Carton led the way to Mr. Lorry's, which was
within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or
Solomon Pross, walked at his side.

Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and
was sitting before a cheery little log or two of
fire—perhaps looking into their blaze for the
picture of that younger elderly gentleman from
Tellson's, who had looked into the red coals at
the Royal George at Dover, now a good many
years ago. He turned his head as they entered,
and showed the surprise with which he saw a
stranger.

"Miss Pross's brother, sir," said Sydney.
"Mr. Barsad."

"Barsad?" repeated the old gentleman,
"Barsad? I have an association with the
name—and with the face."

"I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr.
Barsad," observed Carton, coolly. "Pray sit
down.

As he took a chair himself, he supplied the
link that Mr. Lorry wanted, by saying to him
with a frown, "Witness at that trial." Mr.
Lorry immediately remembered, and regarded
his new visitor with an undisguised look of
abhorrence.

"Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss
Pross as the affectionate brother you have heard
of," said Sydney, "and has acknowledged the
relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay
has been arrested again."

Struck with consternation, the old gentleman
exclaimed, "What do you tell me! I left him
safe and free within these two hours, and am
about to return to him!"

"Arrested for all that. When was it done,
Mr. Barsad?"

"Just now, if at all."

"Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible,
sir," said Sydney, "and I have it from Mr.
Barsad's communication to a friend and brother
Sheep over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has
taken place. He left the messengers at the
gate, and saw them admitted by the porter.
There is no earthly doubt that he is retaken."

Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's
face that it was loss of time to dwell upon the
point. Confused, but sensible that something
might depend on his presence of mind, he
commanded himself, and was silently attentive.

"Now, I trust," said Sydney to him, "that
the name and influence of Doctor Manette may
stand him in as good stead to-morrow—you
said he would be before the Tribunal again
tomorrow, Mr. Barsad?——"

"Yes; I believe so."

"—In as good stead to-morrow as to-day.
But it may not be so. I own to you, I am
shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not
having had the power to prevent this arrest."

"He may not have known of it beforehand,"
said Mr. Lorry.

"But that very circumstance would be alarming,
when we remember how identified he is
with his son-in-law."

"That's true," Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with
his troubled hand at his chin, and his troubled
eyes on Carton.

"In short," said Sydney, "this is a desperate
time, when desperate games are played for
desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the
winning game; I will play the losing one.
No man's life here is worth purchase. Any
one carried home by the people to-day, may
be condemned to-morrow. Now, the stake
I have resolved to play for, in case of the
worst, is a friend in the Conciergerie. And
the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.
Barsad."

"You need have good cards, sir," said the
spy.

"I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold.—-
Mr. Lorry, you know what a brute I am; I wish
you'd give me a little brandy."

It was put before him, and he drank off a
glassful—drank off another glassful—pushed
the bottle thoughtfully away.

"Mr. Barsad," he went on, in the tone of
one who really was looking over a hand at
cards: "Sheep of the prisons, emissary of
Republican committees, now turnkey, now
prisoner, always spy and secret informer, so
much the more valuable here for being English
that an Englishman is less open to suspicion
of subornation in those characters than a