Part 36 (1/2)

Seth nodded as he turned the letter over and over, a puzzled expression in his face.

”She seemed doubtful about leaving it with me, but in the end did so, saying it was a matter of life and death.”

”It's good of you to have brought it,” said Seth. ”She did not say who it was from?”

”No.”

”Look at the writing again and tell me if by any chance it comes from the Marquis.”

”That's a woman's writing,” said the man.

”But not a writing you know?”

”Quite strange to me.”

When he was alone, Seth locked his door and again examined the writing.

His master only knew one woman in Paris, and surely she could not be writing to him. She must know where he was. If she didn't, then in some fas.h.i.+on Latour had deceived him. He put the letter on the table and began to walk slowly about the room.

”It is right that I should open it,” he said suddenly. ”It may be a matter of life and death to Master Richard. He will forgive me.”

He took up the letter, and after a little hesitation tore it open.

”It is from her,” he said, glancing at the name on the last of the sc.r.a.ps of paper of which the letter was composed. ”I was right to open it.”

He sat down by the table and read it slowly, certain portions of it he read a second time, and at intervals made a sound with his mouth like an oath cut short, or a gasp of surprise half suppressed. So Latour had lied, and Bruslart had lied, and mademoiselle was--

”A life and death matter! It's true. It is. Oh, Master Richard, where are you? It's your letter. She calls to you. What can I do?”

The words were muttered in hot haste as though the answer must come quickly. It did.

”Your letter, yet mine since you are not here. So your work becomes mine, Master Richard. I must rescue mademoiselle. How? Let me think. Let me think. G.o.d, help me to think.”

There was a slow, heavy footstep upon the stairs, and in a moment Seth had hidden the letter. Then a knock at the door. Seth opened it, and stood face to face with Jacques Sabatier, who had his finger upon his lip.

”Let me in, citizen. I have turned traitor and have a story to tell.”

CHAPTER XXI

THE MARQUIS DE CASTELLUX

Much the same thing had Sabatier said to Richard Barrington only that morning.

”Deputy Latour will not believe in you,” he explained. ”He is a fool as I have told him each day, giving him your message, and I am tired of serving fools. A day or two, monsieur, and you shall be free. Sabatier promises that. I am turning traitor.”

Barrington thanked him, he could do no less, yet he felt little trust in a man who could confess so glibly to treachery. He would believe the promise when his prison door stood open, when he was free to walk out unhindered, not before.

That day was a long one; indeed, each day seemed longer than the one which preceded it. Confinement was beginning to tell its tale on Barrington. This underground dungeon, it was little better, was gradually taking the heart out of him. At first he had been able to forget long hours in sleep, but latterly this had been denied him.

Sleepless nights succeeded restless days.