ne
you witnessed has nothing whatever to do with you."

The effect of these words on Mordon was magical. The malignant frown
which had distorted his face cleared away. He looked from Jean to
Briggerland as though it were impossible to believe the evidence of his
ears.

"Francois and I love one another," Jean went on in her even voice. "We
have quarrelled to-night on a matter which has nothing to do with
anybody save ourselves."

"You're--going--to--marry--him--next--week?" said Mr. Briggerland dully.
"By God, you'll do nothing of the sort!"

She raised her hand.

"It is too late for you to interfere, father," she said quietly.
"Francois and I shall go our way and face our own fate. I'm sorry you
disapprove, because you have always been a very loving father to me."

That was the first hint Mr. Briggerland had received that there might be
some other explanation for her words, and he became calmer.

"Very well," he said, "I can only tell you that I strongly disapprove of
the action you have taken and that I shall do nothing whatever to
further your reckless scheme. But I must insist upon your coming back to
the house now. I cannot have my daughter talked about."

She nodded.

"I will see you to-morrow morning early, Francois," she said. "Perhaps
you will drive me into Nice before breakfast. I have some purchases to
make."

He bowed, and reached out his hand for the revolver which she had taken
from him.

She looked at the ornate weapon, its silver-plated metal parts, the
graceful ivory handle.

"I'm not going to trust you with this to-night," she said with her rare
smile. "Good night, Francois."

He took her hand and kissed it.

"Good night, Jean," he said in a tremulous voice. For a moment their
eyes met, and then she turned as though she dared not trust herself and
followed her father down the stairs.

They were half-way to the house when she laid her hand on Briggerland's
arm.

"Keep this," she said. It was Francois' revolver. "It is probably loaded
and I thought I saw some silver initials inlaid in the ivory handle. If
I know Francois Mordon, they are his."

"What do you want me to do with it?" he said as he slipped the weapon in
his pocket.

She laughed.

"On your way to bed, come in to my room," she said. "I've quite a lot to
tell you," and she sailed into the drawing-room to interrupt Mrs.
Cole-Mortimer, who was teaching a weary Lydia the elements of bezique.

"Where have you been, Jean?