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...sidered a discreditable station—though it
must be filled by somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why
should he so demean himself as to make himself one?”

“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on
himself, and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very
few minutes.”

“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always
striving to hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect
for my sister—” “I could not better testify my respect for your
sister than by finally relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney
Carton.

“You think not, sir?”

“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”

The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his
ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual
demeanour, received such a check from the inscrutability of
Carton,—who was a mystery to wiser and honester men than he,—
that it faltered here and failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton
said, resuming his former air of contemplating cards:

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics


A Tale of Two Cities

“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that
I have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend
and fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the
country prisons; who was he?”

“French. You don’t know him,” said the spy. quickly.

“French, eh?” replied Carton, musing, and not appearing to
notice him at all, though he echoed his word. “Well, he may be.”

“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it’s not important.”

“Though it’s not important,” repeated Carton, in the same
mechanical way—“though it’s not important—No, it’s not
important. No. Yet I know the face.”

“I think not. I am sure not. It can’t be,” said the spy.

“It—can’t—be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and
filling his glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can’t—
be. Spoke good French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought.”

“Provincial,” said the spy.

“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the
table, as a light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the
same man. We had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”

“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that
gave his aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you
really give me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly
admit, at this distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been
dead several years. I attended him in his last illness. He was
buried in London, at the church of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields.
His unpopularity with the blackguard multitude at the moment
prevented my following his remains, but I helped to lay him in his
coffin.”

Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics


A Tale of Two Cities

remarkable goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he
discovered it to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and
stiffening of all the risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher’s head.

“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To
show you how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded
assumption yours is, I will lay before you a certificate of Cly’s
burial, which I happen to have carried in my pocket-book,” with a
hurried hand he produced and opened it, “ever since. There it is.
Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take it in your hand; it’s no
forgery.”

Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate,
and Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not
have been more violently on end, if it had been that moment
dressed by the Cow with the crumpled horn in the house that Jack
built.

Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched
him on the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.

“That there Roger Cly, master,” s

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