h his arms folded on his breast,

a very different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro

at La Force, he heard One struck away from him, without

surprise. The hour had measured like most other hours. Devoutly

thankful to Heaven for his recovered self-possession, he thought,

“There is but another now,” and turned to walk again.

Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.

The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was

opened, or as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: “He

has never seen me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in

alone; I wait near. Lose no time!”

The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood

before him face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a

smile on his features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney

Carton.

There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that,

for the moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition

of his own imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took

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the prisoner’s hand, and it was his real grasp.

“Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?” he

said.

“I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now.

You are not”the apprehension came suddenly into his mind“a

prisoner?”

“No. I am accide