ertrand did not meet the look. With a mournful gesture he turned
away. "I shall never cease to regret," he said, "the unhappy fate that
sent me into your life. I blame myself bitterly--bitterly. I should have
drawn back at the commencement, but I had not the strength. Only
monsieur, believe this"--his voice suddenly trembled--"it was never my
intention to rob you. Moreover, that which I have taken--I will restore."

He spoke very earnestly, with a baffling touch of dignity that seemed in
some fashion to place him out of reach of contempt.

Mordaunt heard him without impatience, and replied without scorn. "What
you have taken can never be restored. The utmost you can do is to let me
forget, as soon as possible, that I ever imagined you to be--what you
are not."

The simplicity of the words effected in an instant that which neither
taunt nor sneer could ever have accomplished. It pierced straight to
Bertrand's heart. He turned back impulsively, with outstretched hands.

"But, my friend--my friend--" he cried brokenly.

Mordaunt checked him on the instant with a single imperious gesture of
dismissal, so final that it could not be ignored.

The words died on Bertrand's lips. He wheeled sharply, as if at a word of
command, and went to the door.

But as he opened it, Mordaunt spoke. "I will see you again in the
morning."

"Is it necessary?" Bertrand said.

"I desire it." Mordaunt spoke with authority.

Bertrand turned and made him a brief, punctilious bow. "That is enough,"
he said, and left the room martially, his head in the air.

CHAPTER V

A DESPERATE REMEDY

The clock on the mantelpiece struck two, and Mordaunt rose from his chair
to close the window. The night was very still and dark. He stood for a
few moments breathing the moist air. From somewhere away in the distance
there came the weird cry of an owl--the only sound in a waste of silence.
He leaned his head against the window-sash with a sensation of physical
sickness. His heart was heavy as lead.

"Trevor!"

It was no more than a whisper, but he heard it. He turned. "Chris!"

She stood before him, her white draperies caught together with one hand,
her hair flowing in wide ripples all about her, her eyes anxiously raised
to his.

"Trevor," she said, "what is the matter?"

There was a species of desperate courage in the low question. The fingers
that grasped her wrapper were tightly clenched.

He closed the window. "Have you been lyin