“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won’t.”

Carton’s negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in

aid of his quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his

secret mind, and with such a man as he had to do with. His

practised eye saw it, and made the most of it.

“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at

his sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it’s your doing.”

“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don’t be

ungrateful. But for my great respect for your sister, I might not

have led up so pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for

our mutual satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”

“I’ll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I’ll go with you.”

“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner

of her own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a

good city, at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and, as

your escort knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry’s with

us. Are we ready? Come then!”

Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life

remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney’s arm and

looked up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon,

there was a braced purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in

the eyes, which not only contradicted his light manner, but

changed and raised the man. She was too much occupied then

with fears for the brother who so little deserved her affection, and

with Sydney’s friendly reassurances, adequately to heed what she

observed.

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They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way

to Mr. Lorry’s, which was within a few minutes’ walk. John

Barsad, or Solomon Pross, walked at his side.

Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a

cheery little log or two of fireperhaps looking into their blaze for

the picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson’s, who

had looked into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a

good many years ago. He turned his head as they entered, and

showed the surprise with which he saw a stranger.

“Miss Pross’s brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”

“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an

association with the nameand with the face.”

“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed

Carton, coolly. “Pray sit down.”

As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry

wanted, by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr.

Lorry immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor

with an undisguised look of abhorrence.

“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the

affectionate brother you have heard of ,” said Sydney, “and has

acknowledged the relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has

been arrested again.”

Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “What