face that laughed at her
now was a revelation. There was color in the cheeks, so bright a color
she did not remember to have noticed before, not even in those moments
when she had been tempted to compare herself favorably with other women;
there was a sparkle in the eyes that never since the flight from Paris
to Beauvais had she seen in them. It was a joyous, happy girl who looked
back at her from the depths of the mirror, and Jeanne turned away
wondering. It was natural she should feel safe now Richard Barrington
had come, but how was the great joy in her heart to be accounted for?
Would it have been there had it been Lucien who had come to save her?
The question seemed to ask itself, without any will of hers, and the
little room seemed suddenly alive with the answer. It almost frightened
her, yet still she was happy. She sank on her knees beside the bed and
her head was lowered before the crucifix. The soul of a pure, brave
woman was outpoured in thankfulness; "Mother of God, for this help
vouchsafed I thank thee. Keep me this night, this week, always. Bring me
peace. Bring me--" The head sank lower, the lips not daring to ask too
much.

The morning came with sunlight in it, cold but clear. Jeanne peeped from
her window and was satisfied, peeped into the mirror, and wondered no
more at the smiling face there. She knew why such joy had come. She
could not reason about it, she did not attempt to do so; the knowledge
was all sufficient. It was Thursday morning. Saturday was very near.
What did it signify? Nothing. To-day it would be like spring in the
garden.

Barrington greeted Jeanne with the studied courtesy of a comparative
stranger.

"We must be careful," he whispered, "there are certain to be watchful
eyes. Show no interest or astonishment in what I tell you as we eat.
Remember, you are merely being courteous to a new arrival of whose
existence you have known something in the past."

"I understand. I shall listen very carefully."

"I am greatly honored, mademoiselle, by your letter. I need not ask
whether you trust me."

"Indeed, no," she answered.

"It might easily have come into my hands too late," Barrington went on.
"We are both victims of deception, and where the truth lies I cannot
tell even now. I will recount what has happened; you may be able to
throw some light upon it."

Barrington told her everything from his first meeting with Raymond
Latour when a filthy crowd was yelling round a prisoner,