A Tale of Two Cities

"Yes.  T'other one's was one syllable.  I know you.  You was a spy--
witness at the Bailey.  What, in the name of the Father of Lies,
own father to yourself, was you called at that time?"

"Barsad," said another voice, striking in.

"That's the name for a thousand pound!" cried Jerry.

The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton.  He had his hands
behind him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at
Mr. 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 asked.

"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, unprotected; and as
your escort knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with us.
Are we ready?  Come then!"

Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life
remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked
up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a
braced purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes,
which not only contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised
the man.  She was too much occupied then with fears for the brother
who so little deserved her affection, and with Sydney's friendly
reassurances, adequately to heed what she observed.

They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to
Mr. Lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk.  John Barsad, or
Solomon Pross, walked at his side.

Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a
cheery little log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze
for the picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson's, who
had looked into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a
good many years ago.  He turned his head as they entered, and showed
the surprise with which he saw a stranger.

"Miss Pross's brother, sir," said Sydney.  "Mr. Barsad."

"Barsad?" repeated the old gentleman, "Barsad?  I have an association
with the name--and with the face."