ltered here and failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton

said, resuming his former air of contemplating cards:

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“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that

I have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend

and fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the

country prisons; who was he?”

“French. You don’t know him,” said the spy. quickly.

“French, eh?” replied Carton, musing, and not appearing to

notice him at all, though he echoed his word. “Well, he may be.”

“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it’s not important.”

“Though it’s not important,” repeated Carton, in the same

mechanical way“though it’s not importantNo, it’s not

important. No. Yet I know the face.”

“I think not. I am sure not. It can’t be,” said the spy.

“Itcan’tbe,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and

filling his glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can’t

be. Spoke good French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought.”

“Provincial,” said the spy.

“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the

table, as a light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the

same man. We had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”

“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that

gave his aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you