Let those throw the first stone at him who have seen the right way gaping before their feet with a hundred pitfalls and barriers, apparently insurmountable, and have resolutely taken that road. For the devious path of Compromise has this merit--that the obstacles are round the corner. Barebone, absorbed in thought, hardly noticed that the driver of his carriage descended from the box and lounged toward the archway, where the hum of traffic and the passage of many people would serve to beguile a long wait. After a minute's delay, a driver returned and climbed to the seat--but it was not the same driver. He wore the same coat and hat, but a different face looked out from the sheepskin collar turned up to the ears. There was no one in the court-yard to notice this trifling change. Barebone was not even looking out of the window. He had never glanced at the cabman's face, whose vehicle had happened to be lingering at the corner of the Ruelle St. Jacob when Colville and his companion had emerged from the high doorway of the Hotel Gemosac. Barebone was so far obeying instructions that he was leaning back in the carriage, his face half hidden by the collar of his coat. For it was a cold morning in mid-winter. He hardly looked up when the handle of the door was turned. Colville had shut this door five minutes earlier, promising to return immediately. It was undoubtedly his hand that opened the door. But suddenly Barebone sat up. Both doors were open. Before he could make another movement, two men stepped quietly into the carriage, each closing the door by which he had entered quickly and noiselessly. One seated himself beside Barebone, the other opposite to him, and each drew down a blind. They seemed to have rehearsed the actions over and over again, so that there was no hitch or noise or bungling. The whole was executed as if by clock-work, and the carriage moved away the instant the doors were closed. In the twilight, within the carriage, the two men grasped Loo Barebone, each by one arm, and held him firmly against the back of the carriage. “Quietly, mon bon monsieur; quietly, and you will come to no harm.” Barebone made no resistance, and only laughed. “You have come too soon,” he said, without attempting to free his arms, which were held, as if by a vice, at the elbow and shoulder. “You have come too soon, gentlemen! There is no money in the carriage. Not so much as a sou.” “It is not for money that we have come,” replied the man who had first spoken--and the absolute silence of his companion was obviously the silence of a subordinate. “Though, for a larger sum than monsieur is likely to offer, one might make a mistake, and allow of escape--who knows?” The remark was made with the cynical honesty of dishonesty which had so lately been introduced into France by him who was now Dictator of that facile people. “Oh! I offer nothing,” replied Barebone. “For a good reason. I have nothing to offer. If you are not thieves, what are you?”