nd asked Seguis what he wished her to do.

"Write him a note of farewell," came the stolid command. "It will
be the last message he will ever receive from you."

Instantly her color fled; fear filled her eyes.

"What do you mean? You're not going to kill him?" she burst out.

"No. He is going to leave the country forever."

"Did he tell you so?" she asked.

"No. But I want you to tell him so, in your own handwriting. It is
the only thing that will save him. He'll obey you. I'll see that
he gets a safe-conduct to the edge of the district. If you don't
do this, I can't answer for what'll happen to him."

"Then you will kill him!" she flashed. "I knew it. Look here,
Seguis! What's your object in this? You have a motive, and I demand
to know what it is."

For an instant, the passion of the man leaped to his lips, and
trembled there in hot words. But he crushed it down resolutely. He
was too wise to ruin his plans now. Later, in a year, in two years,
five years perhaps, when the memory of McTavish had dimmed, he
would speak. But, now, he must not betray himself.

"I sha'n't kill him," he returned, calmly. "Nothing is further
from my mind. But I won't be responsible for what happens to him.
There's only one way of saving his life--to send him out of the
country. If he stays, he'll eventually be captured, and what nearly
happened to-day will happen then. You wish him to live, don't you?

"Yes, yes," she muttered, between dry lips. "Whatever happens to
me, he must live."

"Then, write as I suggest. Make it a command, not an entreaty.
He'll obey you, and his life will be saved."

For a few moments, Jean paused, irresolute, and then, with difficulty,
started the message on the back of the pages McTavish had sent to
her. There was no struggle now against the inevitable; that had
been endured before. This was merely writing a different final
chapter to their romance, and she felt glad of the opportunity to
give him life, although life without her and without honor were an
empty thing to him. Strong in the feeling that upon her words his
very existence depended, she made them eager and hopeful, but
imperative, appealing to those instincts in him that could not
resist her desire. For perhaps ten minutes, she wrote, and then
handed the paper to Seguis.

"I must read it," he said, and, at her nod of acquiescence, puzzled
out the words that emotion and her awkward position had made unsteady
and misshapen. Then, he nodde