the proprietor; but still she shrank back as
she approached a dim side entrance in a narrow street, and drawing her
bonnet closer over her face, pushed open a baize door, and entered a
dark passage divided on one side into a row of narrow cells, separated
from each other by wooden partitions.

She made so little noise, and still kept so far back in the pervading
gloom, that her presence was unnoticed by a shabby-looking man, who was
just then engaged in earnest conversation with somebody in the next box.
Before she had spoken, and while she was yet in the shadow of the
partition, she thought she recognized the voice of the person who was
speaking as that of Bashley, and held her breath to listen, for a name
was mentioned which sent the blood back to her heart and made her feel
sick and faint.

"Well, as long as everything's safe," said the pawnbroker's assistant,
who leaned his elbows on the counter, so that his head was close to the
partition; "but we've got a good deal here now, you know, and if the
thing should be found out--."

"Yah! who's to find it out?" retorted Bashley; "I tell you everything's
ready, and the risk's mine. Old Dormeur's half childish; and as to the
young one, I tell you he's safe enough for a week, if I like to keep him
so. He'd an appointment to supper with the old man to-night, and he
won't keep it. If he's not on his way now to see the girl, he's tied up
neck and heels, by this time, and in a safe place out of harm's way. I
tell you I can be back here in an hour or two. You're too deep in now to
draw back; and besides, who can swear to raw silk? I shall go first, and
look after the girl; then I mean to call on the old man, and send him
out on a wild-goose chase. The rest's easy, for I've a key, and a light
cart at the back of the warehouse will bring the silk here in no time.
The game's in my hands now, and I shall play to win."

"But when the young one tells his version of the story?"

"How can he? He comes out without knowing where from; and if ever he
did, he's been in an empty house. A pretty story! No, no; if the old man
believes it, he won't face the disgrace, for he more than half suspects
his grandson as it is. Come now, will you or won't you?"

Sara Rondeau, crouching by the door, hears this with an undefined fear
which paralyses her for a moment, but leaves one thought in her troubled
mind.

Some foul plot is hatching against Antoine, and she is powerless to
hinder it. No--on