The shop was empty. A woman greeted them and brought them wine.
"Read that letter, Master Richard. I will tell you how I got it, and why I opened it, afterwards."
So Jeanne's letter came into the hands of the man she had turned to in her peril and distress.
Even as he read it, bending over the scraps of paper in the poorly lighted wine shop, she was eagerly questioning Marie. The letter was of such immense importance to her, so much hung upon it, that now it had gone Jeanne began to wonder whether the best means of getting it into the right hands had been taken, whether a surer method might not have been thought of.
"Monsieur Barrington had not left Paris?"
"No, mademoiselle, for the man said he would deliver the letter."
"Will he, Marie, will he? Do you think he was honest?"
"Yes, oh yes, he was honest, or I should not have parted with the letter."
"But he could have told you where Monsieur Barrington was and let you deliver it," said Jeanne.
"He would not do that, and he had a reason, a good one," Marie answered. "It was necessary that Monsieur Barrington's whereabouts should be kept secret. He could not tell any one where he was, he had promised. For all he knew I might be an enemy and the letter a trick. He would deliver it if I left it with him."