Montague turned quickly, and observed that Barton did indeed look deadly pale. He hastened to his side.
“My dear fellow, are you ill?” he asked anxiously.
The question was unheeded and twice, repeated, ere Barton stammered—
“I saw him—by——, I saw him!”
“Him!—the wretch—who—where now?—where is he?” cried Montague, looking around him.
“I saw him—but he is gone,” repeated Barton, faintly.
“But where—where? For God’s sake speak,” urged Montague, vehemently.
“It is but this moment—here,” said he.
“But what did he look like—what had he on—what did he wear—quick, quick,” urged his excited companion, ready to dart among the crowd and collar the delinquent on the spot.
“He touched your arm—he spoke to you—he pointed to me. God be merciful to me, there is no escape,” said Barton, in the low, subdued tones of despair.