“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

ch