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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

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

“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,
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