ard for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the
command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love
for Jeanne.

A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans
presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not
know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who
worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to
rescue her from threatened death.

Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck
the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy.

Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the
gate.

The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an
agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained
in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in
command.

But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust,
with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look
like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the
great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was
welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close
his jaws.

Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the
barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to
get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be
allowed to leave Paris again.

The lion had thought fit to close his jaws.

CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH

Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening,
nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St.
Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at
a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house,
and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness
completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne.

He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights
of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne;
it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this
intolerable suspense.

He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature
asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the
sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest.

It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp