a good deal there for you to read, dear," she said.
"Percy begged me to give you this, and then to let you read it when you
were alone."

She pressed the packet into his hand. Armand's face was ashen pale. He
clung to her with strange, nervous tenacity; the paper which he held in
one hand seemed to Sear his fingers as with a branding-iron.

"I will slip away now," she said, for strangely enough since Percy's
message had been in Armand's hands she was once again conscious of
that awful feeling of iciness round her heart, a sense of numbness that
paralysed her very thoughts.

"You will make my excuses to Mademoiselle Lange," she said, trying to
smile. "When you have read, you will wish to see her alone."

Gently she disengaged herself from Armand's grasp and made for the door.
He appeared dazed, staring down at that paper which was scorching his
fingers. Only when her hand was on the latch did he seem to realise that
she was going.

"Little mother," came involuntarily to his lips.

She came straight back to him and took both his wrists in her small
hands. She was taller than he, and his head was slightly bent forward.
Thus she towered over him, loving but strong, her great, earnest eyes
searching his soul.

"When shall I see you again, little mother?" he asked.

"Read your letter, dear," she replied, "and when you have read it, if
you care to impart its contents to me, come to-night to my lodgings,
Quai de la Ferraille, above the saddler's shop. But if there is aught
in it that you do not wish me to know, then do not come; I shall
understand. Good-bye, dear."

She took his head between her two cold hands, and as it was still bowed
she placed a tender kiss, as of a long farewell, upon his hair.

Then she went out of the room.

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE LETTER

Armand sat in the armchair in front of the fire. His head rested against
one hand; in the other he held the letter written by the friend whom he
had betrayed.

Twice he had read it now, and already was every word of that minute,
clear writing graven upon the innermost fibres of his body, upon the
most secret cells of his brain.

Armand, I know. I knew even before Chauvelin came to me, and stood there
hoping to gloat over the soul-agony a man who finds that he has been
betrayed by his dearest friend. But that d--d reprobate did not get
that satisfaction, for I was prepared. Not only do I know, Armand, but
I UNDERSTAND. I, who do not know what love i