Book the Third - The Track of a Storm
8. VIII. A Hand at Cards
(continued)
The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands
behind him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at
Mr. Cruncher's elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old
Bailey itself.
"Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's,
to his surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not
present myself elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be
useful; I present myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother.
I wish you had a better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish
for your sake Mr. Barsad was not a Sheep of the Prisons."
Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers.
The spy, who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared--
"I'll tell you," said Sydney. "I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming
out of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the
walls, an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I
remember faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection,
and having a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating
you with the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked
in your direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you,
and sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved
conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers,
the nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random,
seemed to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad."
"What purpose?" the spy asked.
"It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the
street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of
your company--at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance?"
"Under a threat?"
"Oh! Did I say that?"
"Then, why should I go there?"
"Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't."
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