d, and took both her hands in his. "I am sure I am
right. It is too dangerous a letter to be in existence, Jean, dangerous
for you and for me--you will let me have it to-night?"

She hesitated.

"It is in my room," she said, an unnecessary statement, and, in the
circumstances, a dangerous one, for his eyes dropped to the bag that
hung at her wrist.

"It is there," he said. "Jean darling, do as I ask," he pleaded. "You
know, every time I think of that letter I go cold. I was a madman when I
wrote it."

"I have not got it here," she said steadily. She tried to draw back, but
she was too late. He gripped her wrists and pulled the bag roughly from
her hand.

"Forgive me, but I know I am right," he began, and then like a fury she
flew at him, wrenched the bag from his hand, and by the very violence of
her attack, flung him backward.

He stared at her, and the colour faded from his face leaving it a dead
white.

"What is this you are trying to do?" he glowered at her.

"I will see you in the morning, Francois," she said and turned.

Before she could reach the head of the stairs his arm was round her and
he had dragged her back.

"My friend," he said between his teeth, "there is something in this
matter which is bad for me."

"Let me go," she breathed and struck at his face.

For a full minute they struggled, and then the door opened and Mr.
Briggerland came in, and at the sight of his livid face, Mordon released
his hold.

"You swine!" hissed the big man. His fist shot out and Mordon went down
with a crash to the ground. For a moment he was stunned, and then with a
snarl he turned over on his side and whipped a revolver from his hip
pocket. Before he could fire, the girl had gripped the pistol and
wrenched it from his hand.

"Get up," said Briggerland sternly. "Now explain to me, my friend, what
you mean by this disgraceful attack upon mademoiselle."

The man rose and dusted himself mechanically and there was that in his
face which boded no good to Mr. Briggerland.

Before he could speak Jean intervened.

"Father," she said quietly, "you have no right to strike Francois."

"Francois," spluttered Briggerland, his dark face purple with rage.

"Francois," she repeated calmly. "It is right that you should know that
Francois and I will be married next week."

Mr. Briggerland's jaw dropped.

"What?" he almost shrieked.

She nodded.

"We are going to be married next week," she said, "and the little sce