“Carysford says,” cried another, “that he knows one of them well, and has often seen him in Paris at the play-houses.”
A low whisper ran around after these words, and at the instant every eye was directed to Mark O'Donoghue. The young man sustained their looks with a frown of resolute daring, turning from one to the other to see if, perchance, by any gesture or expression, he could single out one to pay the penalty for the rest—his blood boiled at the insulting glances that fell upon him, and he was in the very act of giving his temper vent, when an arm was slipped within his, and Frederick Travers whispered in his ear—
“I hope your friend has got safely away. There are some fellows here to-night of notoriously bad character, and Mr. Talbot may get into trouble on that account.”
“He has just left this. I hope before now he has reached the street.”
“Let me be your convoy, then,” said Travers, good-naturedly. “These talking fools will cease their scandal when they see us together;” and, affecting an air of easy intimacy, he led Mark through the crowd, which even already bestowed very altered glances as they passed.
“Good night, sir,” said Mark, abruptly, as they arrived at the room by which he remembered to have entered, “I see my friend yonder, awaiting me.” Travers returned the greeting, and half extended his hand, but Mark coolly bowed and turned away. The moment after he was at Talbot's side.
“Thank heaven, we are breathing the free air again,” he exclaimed, as they issued forth into the street, “a little longer would have suffocated me.”
“It was with Travers you parted at the head of the stair?” said Talbot, inquiringly.