ime Mordaunt spoke with bitterness.

"Monsieur, no one sent me." There was dignity in Bertrand's rejoinder, a
dignity that compelled belief. "I came as soon as I knew what had
happened. I came to redress a great wrong. I came to restore to you that
which is your own property--of which, in truth, you have never been
deprived. With your permission, I will finish. On the night of the
fireworks, the night you were in London, I--betrayed myself. I cannot
tell you how it happened. I know only that my love became suddenly a
flame that I could not hide. She had been in danger, and me--I lost my
self-control. The veil was withdrawn, I could hide my love no more. I
showed her my heart just as it was, and--she showed me hers."

Bertrand rose with none of his customary impetuosity and stood in front
of Mordaunt, meeting the steady eyes with equal steadiness.

"I tell you the truth," he said. "We understand each other, and we love
each other. But you--you are even now more to her than I have ever been.
She has need of you as she has never had of me. You are the reality in
her life. I"--he spread out his hands--"I am the romance."

He paused as if to gather his strength, then went rapidly on. But his
face was grey. He looked like a man who had travelled fast and far.
"Monsieur," he said very earnestly, "believe me, I do not stand between
you. I love her--I love you both--too much for that. My one desire, my
one prayer, is for her happiness--and yours. Do not, I beseech you, make
me an obstacle. You are her protector. Do not leave her unprotected!"

Again for an instant he paused, seeming to strive after self-control.
Then suddenly he relinquished the attempt. He flung his dignity from
him; he threw himself on his knees at the impassive Englishman's feet.
"Mr. Mordaunt," he cried out brokenly, "I have told you the truth. As
a dying man, I swear to you--by God--that I have hidden nothing.
Monsieur--monsieur--go back to her--make her happy--before I die!"

His voice dropped. He sank forward, murmuring incoherently.

Mordaunt stooped sharply over him. "Bertrand, for Heaven's sake--" he
began, and broke off short; for the face that still tried to look into
his was so convulsed with agony that he knew him to be for the moment
beyond the reach of words.

He lifted the huddled Frenchman to a chair with great gentleness; but the
paroxysm did not pass. It was terrible to witness. It seemed to rack him
from head to foot, and through it h