subtle, cat-like courage, nothing to dread—
and he went to Paris. There were plenty of
small chances there for men of his calibre.
He waited for one of them. It came; he
made the most of it; attracted favourably
the notice of the terrible Fouquier-Tinville;
and won his way to a place in the office of
the Secret Police.

Meanwhile, Danville's anger cooled down:
he recovered the use of that cunning sense
which had hitherto served him well, and sent
to recal the discarded servant. It was too
late. Lomaque was already in a position to
set him at defiance—nay, to put his neck,
perhaps, under the blade of the guillotine.
Worse than this, anonymous letters reached
him, warning him to lose no time in proving
his patriotism by some indisputable sacrifice,
and in silencing his mother, whose imprudent
sincerity was likely ere long to cost her her
life. Danville knew her well enough to
know that there was but one way of saving
her, and thereby saving himself. She had
always refused to emigrate; but he now
insisted that she should seize the first
opportunity he could procure for her of quitting
France, until calmer times arrived. Probably
she would have risked her own life ten times
over rather than have obeyed him; but she
had not the courage to risk her son's too;
and she yielded for his sake. Partly by
secret influence, partly by unblushing fraud,
Danville procured for her such papers and
permits as would enable her to leave France
by way of Marseilles. Even then she refused
to depart, until she knew what her son's
plans were for the future. He showed her a
letter which he was about to despatch to
Robespierre himself, vindicating his suspected
patriotism, and indignantly demanding to be
allowed to prove it by filling some office, no
matter how small, under the redoubtable
triumvirate which then governed, or more
properly, terrified France. The sight of this
document reassured Madame Danville. She
bade her son farewell, and departed at last,
with one trusty servant, for Marseilles.

Danville's intention in sending his letter to
Paris, had been simply to save himself by
patriotic bluster. He was thunder-struck at
receiving a reply, taking him at his word,
and summoning him to the capital to accept
employment there under the then existing
government. There was no choice but to
obey. So to Paris he journeyed; taking his
wife with him into the very jaws of danger.
He was then at open enmity with Trudaine;
and the more anxious and alarmed he could
make the brother feel on the sister's account,
the better he was pleased. True to his trust
and his love, through all dangers as through
all persecutions, Trudaine followed them;
and the street of their sojourn at Paris, in the
perilous days of the Terror, was the street of
his sojourn, too.

Danville had been astonished at the acceptance
of his proffered services—he was still
more amazed when he found that the post
selected for him was one of the superintendent's
places in that very office of Secret
Police in which Lomaque was employed as
Agent. Robespierre and his colleagues had
taken the measure of their man—he had money
enough and local importance enough to be
worth studying. They knew where he was to
be distrusted, and how he might be made
useful. The affairs of the Secret Police
were the sort of affairs which an unscrupulously
cunning man was fitted to help on;
and the faithful exercise of that cunning in
the service of the state was ensured by the
presence of Lomaque in the office. The
discarded servant was just the right sort of
spy to watch the suspected master. Thus it
happened that, in the office of the Secret
Police of Paris, and under the Reign of
Terror, Lomaque's old master was, nominally,
his master still—the superintendent to whom
he was ceremonially accountable, in public—
the suspected man, whose slightest words
and deeds he was officially set to watch, in
private.

Ever sadder and darker grew the face of
Lomaque as he now pondered alone over the
changes and misfortunes of the past five
years. A neighbouring church-clock striking
the hour of seven aroused him from his
meditations. He arranged the confused mass of
papers before him—looked towards the door
as if expecting someone to enter—then, finding
himself still alone, recurred to the one special
paper which had first suggested his long train
of gloomy thoughts. The few lines it contained
were signed in cypher, and ran thus:—

"You are aware that your superintendent, Danville,
obtained leave of absence, last week, to attend to some
affairs of his at Lyons, and that he is not expected
back just yet for a day or two. While he is away,
push on the affair of Trudaine. Collect all the
evidence, and hold yourself in readiness to act on it at a
moment's notice. Don't leave the office till you have
heard from me again. If you have a copy of the
Private Instructions respecting Danville, which you wrote
for me, send it to my house. I wish to refresh my
memory. Your original letter is burnt."

Here the note abruptly terminated. As he
folded it up, and put it in his pocket, Lomaque
sighed. This was a very rare expression of
feeling with him. He leaned back in his
chair, and beat his nails impatiently on the
table. Suddenly there was a faint little tap
at the room door, and eight or ten men—
evidently familiars of the new French
Inquisition—quietly entered, and ranged themselves
against the wall. Lomaque nodded to two of
them. "Picard and Magloire, go and sit
down at that desk. I shall want you after the
rest are gone." Saying this, Lomaque handed
certain sealed and docketed papers to the
other men waiting in the room, who received
them in silence, bowed, and went out.
Innocent spectators might have thought them
clerks taking bills of lading from a merchant.
Who could have imagined that the giving