the
hour of eight
At the house itself he could not inquire as yet ; obviously it would not have been safe ; tomorrow , perhaps , when he knew more , but not tonight . His keen eyes had already spied at least two figures clothed in the rags of out-of-work labourers like himself , who had hung with suspicious persistence in this same neighbourhood , and who during the two hours that he had been in observation had never strayed out of sight of the house in the Rue de la Croix Blanche . That these were two spies on the watch was , of course , obvious ; but whether they were on the watch for St. Just or for some other unfortunate wretch it was at this stage impossible to conjecture . Then , as from the Tour des Dames close by the clock solemnly struck the hour of eight , and Blakeney prepared to wend his way back to another part of the city , he suddenly saw Armand walking slowly up the street . The young man did not look either to right or left ; he held his head forward on his chest , and his hands were hidden underneath his cloak . When he passed immediately under one of the street lamps Blakeney caught sight of his face ; it was pale and drawn . Then he turned his head , and for the space of two seconds his eyes across the narrow street encountered those of his chief .