“Let me think,” said he.  “Let me think!  Is it possible that Stewart has lied to you all—­to one as to another?  Let me think!” His mind ran back over the matter, and he began to remember instances which had seemed to him odd, but to which he had attached no importance.  He remembered O’Hara’s puzzled and uncomprehending face when he, Ste. Marie, had spoken of Stewart’s villany.  He remembered the man’s indignation over the affair of the poison, and his fairness in trying to make amends.  He remembered other things, and his face grew lighter and he drew a great breath of relief.  He said:  “Coira, I do not believe he knew.  Stewart has lied equally to you all—­tricked each one of you.”  And at that the girl gave a cry of gladness and began to weep.

As long as men and women continue to stand upon opposite sides of a great gulf—­and that will be as long as they exist together in this world—­just so long will men continue to be unhappy and ill at ease in the face of women’s tears, even though they know vaguely that tears may mean just anything at all, and by no means always grief.

Ste. Marie stood first upon one foot and then upon the other.  He looked anxiously about him for succor.  He said, “There! there!” or words to that effect, and once he touched the shoulder of the girl who stood weeping before him, and he was very miserable indeed.

But quite suddenly, in the midst of his discomfort, she looked up to him, and she was smiling and flushed, so that Ste. Marie stared at her in utter amazement.

“So now at last,” said she, “I have back my Bayard.  And I think the rest—­doesn’t matter very much.”

“Bayard?” said he, wondering.  “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Then,” said she, “you must just go without understanding.  For I shall never, never explain.”  The bright flush went from her face and she turned grave once more.  “What is to be done?” she asked.  “What must we do now, Ste. Marie—­I mean about Arthur Benham?  I suppose he must be told.”

“Either he must be told,” said the man, “or he must be taken back to his home by force.”  He told her about the four letters which in four days he had thrown over the wall into the Clamart road.  “It was on the chance,” he said, “that some one would pick one of them up and post it, thinking it had been dropped there by accident.  What has become of them I don’t know.  I know only that they never reached Hartley.”

The girl nodded thoughtfully.  “Yes,” said she, “that was the best thing you could have done.  It ought to have succeeded.  Of course—­” She paused a moment and then nodded again.  “Of course,” said she, “I can manage to get a letter in the post now.  We’ll send it to-day if you like.  But I was wondering—­would it be better or not to tell Arthur the truth?  It all depends upon how he may take it—­whether or not he will believe you.  He’s very stubborn, and he’s frightened about this break with his family, and he is quite sure that he has been badly treated.  Will he believe you?  Of course, if he does believe he could escape from here quite easily at any time, and there’d be no necessity for a rescue.  What do you think?”