excellent card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion,

that Mr. Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English

government, is the spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic

crouching in its bosom, the English traitor and agent of all

mischief so much spoken of and so difficult to find. That’s a card

not to be beaten. Have you followed my hand, Mr. Barsad?”

“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat

uneasily.

“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest

Section Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see

what you have. Don’t hurry.”

He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy,

and drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking

himself into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him.

Seeing it, he poured out and drank another glassful.

“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”

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It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing

cards in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his

honourable employment in England, through too much

unsuccessful hard swearing therenot because he was not

wanted there; our English reasons for vaunting our superiority to

secrecy and spies are of very modern datehe knew that he had

crossed the Channel, and accepted serv