miserable servant of an equally miserable master. His pale-coloured,
deep-set eyes challenged the crowd, which gave way before him, slunk
back into the corners, away from his coldly threatening glance. Thus he
found himself suddenly face to face with Mole, somewhat isolated from
the rest, and close to the tin bath with its grim contents. Chauvelin
had the papers in his hand.

"Take these, citizen," he said curtly to the other. "They are all in
order."

He looked up at Mole as he said this, for the latter, though his
shoulders were bent, was unusually tall, and Mole took the papers from
him. Thus for the space of a few seconds the two men looked into one
another's face, eyes to eyes--and suddenly Chauvelin felt an icy sweat
coursing down his spine. The eyes into which he gazed had a strange,
ironical twinkle in them, a kind of good-humoured arrogance, whilst
through the firm, clear-cut lips, half hidden by a dirty and ill-kempt
beard, there came the sound--oh! a mere echo--of a quaint and inane
laugh.

The whole thing--it seemed like a vision--was over in a second.
Chauvelin, sick and faint with the sudden rush of blood to his head,
closed his eyes for one brief instant. The next, the crowd had closed
round him; anxious inquiries reached his re-awakened senses.

But he uttered one quick, hoarse cry:

"Hebert! A moi! Are you there?"

"Present, citizen!" came in immediate response. And a tall figure in the