excellent card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion,
that Mr. Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English
government, is the spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic
crouching in its bosom, the English traitor and agent of all
mischief so much spoken of and so difficult to find. That’s a card
not to be beaten. Have you followed my hand, Mr. Barsad?”
“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat
uneasily.
“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest
Section Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see
what you have. Don’t hurry.”
He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy,
and drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking
himself into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him.
Seeing it, he poured out and drank another glassful.
“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”
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It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing
cards in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his
honourable employment in England, through too much
unsuccessful hard swearing therenot because he was not
wanted there; our English reasons for vaunting our superiority to
secrecy and spies are of very modern datehe knew that he had
crossed the Channel, and accepted service in France: first, as a
tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen there:
gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives.
He knew that under the overthrown government he had been a
spy upon Saint Antoine and Defarge’s wine-shop; had received