n of such great
attainments that he came to the knife. Besides, it is not necessary
that you should understand my plans, Francois."

She knew quite well what was troubling him, but she waited.

"I cannot understand the letter which I wrote for you," said Mordon.
"The letter in which I say Madame Meredith loved me. I have thought this
matter out, Jean, and it seems to me that I am compromised."

She laughed softly.

"Poor Francois," she said mockingly. "With whom could you be compromised
but with your future wife? If I desire you to write that letter, what
else matters?"

Again he was silent.

"I cannot speak here," he said almost roughly. "You must come to my
room."

She hesitated. There was something in his voice she did not like.

"Very well," she said, and followed him up the steep stairs.

Chapter XXXIII

"Now explain." His words were a command, his tone peremptory.

Jean, who knew men, and read them without error, realised that this was
not a moment to temporise.

"I will explain to you, Francois, but I do not like the way you speak,"
she said. "It is not you I wish to compromise, but Madame Meredith."

"In this letter I wrote for you I said I was going away. I confessed to
you that I had forged a cheque for five million francs. That is a very
serious document, mademoiselle, to be in the possession of anybody but
myself." He looked at her straight in the eyes and she met his gaze
unflinchingly.

"The thing will be made very clear to you to-morrow, Francois," she said
softly, "and really there is no reason to worry. I wish to end this
unhappy state of affairs."

"With me?" he asked quickly.

"No, with Madame Meredith," she answered. "I, too, am tired of waiting
for marriage and I intend asking my father's permission for the wedding
to take place next week. Indeed, Francois," she lowered her eyes
modestly, "I have already written to the British Consul at Nice, asking
him to arrange for the ceremony to be performed."

The sallow face of the chauffeur flushed a dull red.

"Do you mean that?" he said eagerly. "Jean, you are not deceiving me?"

She shook her head.

"No, Francois," she said in that low plaintive voice of hers, "I could
not deceive you in a matter so important to myself."

He stood watching her, his breast heaving, his burning eyes devouring
her, then:

"You will give me back that letter I wrote, Jean?" he said.

"I will give it to you to-morrow."

"To-night," he sai