goes first? And regarding that name of Pross, likewise. That

warn’t your name over the water.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know all I mean, for I can’t call to mind what your

name was, over the water.”

“No?”

“No. But I’ll swear it was a name of two syllables.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. T’other one’s was one syllable. I know you. You was a spywitness

at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own

father to yourself, was you called at that time?”

“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.

“That’s the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry. 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

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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 companyat the office of Tellson’s Bank, for

instance?”

“Under a threat?”

“Oh! Did I say that?”

“Then, why should I go there?”

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“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can’t say, if you can’t.”

“Do you mean that you won’t say, sir?” the spy irresolutely

asked.