of her night's
rest, but she had a partiality for her young lodger, whose pleasant ways
and easy liberality had been like a pale ray of sunshine through the
squalor of every-day misery.

"It is a letter, citoyenne," said Armand, with earnest entreaty, "for my
sister. She lives in the Rue de Charonne, near the fortifications, and
must have it within an hour; it is a matter of life and death to her, to
me, and to another who is very dear to us both."

The concierge threw up her hands in horror.

"Rue de Charonne, near the fortifications," she exclaimed, "and within
an hour! By the Holy Virgin, citizen, that is impossible. Who will take
it? There is no way."

"A way must be found, citoyenne," said Armand firmly, "and at once; it
is not far, and there are five golden louis waiting for the messenger!"

Five golden louis! The poor, hardworking woman's eyes gleamed at the
thought. Five louis meant food for at least two months if one was
careful, and--

"Give me the letter, citizen," she said, "time to slip on a warm
petticoat and a shawl, and I'll go myself. It's not fit for the boy to
go at this hour."

"You will bring me back a line from my sister in reply to this," said
Armand, whom circumstances had at last rendered cautious. "Bring it up
to my rooms that I may give you the five louis in exchange."

He waited while the woman slipped back into her room. She heard him
speaking to her boy; the same lad who a fortnight ago had taken the
treacherous letter which had lured Blakeney to the house into the fatal
ambuscade that had been prepared for him. Everything reminded Armand of
that awful night, every hour that he had since spent in the house had
been racking torture to him. Now at last he was to leave it, and on an
errand which might help to ease the load of remorse from his heart.

The woman was soon ready. Armand gave her final directions as to how to
find the house; then she took the letter and promised to be very quick,
and to bring back a reply from the lady.

Armand accompanied her to the door. The night was dark, a thin drizzle
was falling; he stood and watched until the woman's rapidly walking
figure was lost in the misty gloom.

Then with a heavy sigh he once more went within.

CHAPTER XLI. WHEN HOPE WAS DEAD

In a small upstairs room in the Rue de Charonne, above the shop of
Lucas the old-clothes dealer, Marguerite sat with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes.
Armand's letter, with its message and its warning,