“Monsieur Barrington had not left Paris?”

“No, mademoiselle, for the man said he would deliver the letter.”

“Will he, Marie, will he?  Do you think he was honest?”

“Yes, oh yes, he was honest, or I should not have parted with the letter.”

“But he could have told you where Monsieur Barrington was and let you deliver it,” said Jeanne.

“He would not do that, and he had a reason, a good one,” Marie answered.  “It was necessary that Monsieur Barrington’s whereabouts should be kept secret.  He could not tell any one where he was, he had promised.  For all he knew I might be an enemy and the letter a trick.  He would deliver it if I left it with him.”

“You could do nothing else, Marie.”

“What troubles me, mademoiselle, is how the gentleman is to help you to get away from this house,” said the girl.  “The master does not let people go unless he is told to by—­by powerful men, men he must obey.  I think he is as afraid of them as I am of him.”

“Ah, Marie, if the letter only reaches Monsieur Barrington most of the danger is gone,” said Jeanne.  “He will find a way, I know he will.  Somehow, he will help me.  He is a brave man, Marie, I know, I know.  He has saved me twice already.  I should have no fear at all were I certain that he had the letter.”

The girl was silent for a moment, and then said quietly—­

“It must be wonderful to have a lover like that.”

Perhaps Jeanne was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice the girl’s words, perhaps she considered it impossible to make Marie understand that it is not only a lover who will do great things for a woman; at any rate, she made no answer.  It mattered little what the girl thought.

It was difficult for Jeanne to live her days quietly, to look and behave as though the coming Saturday had no especial meaning for her.  Legrand, when she met him, was more than usually courteous, and Jeanne was careful to treat him as she had always done.  He might be watching her, and it would be well to attract as little attention as possible.  She could not tell what might happen if only her letter had found its way into Richard Barrington’s hands.  How could he help her?  What could he do?

It was January, and cold, but the weather was fine and sunny.  At noon it was pleasant to walk in the garden, and many of the guests did so.  The Abbe took his daily walk there even when it rained.  He might have been the host by his manner, and was certainly the ruling spirit.  Even Legrand seemed a little afraid of him and treated him with marked respect.  The Abbe was a worldling, a lover of purple and fine linen and of the people who lived in them; he was therefore especially attentive to Jeanne St. Clair, knowing that she belonged to one of the noblest families in the land.  With him Jeanne took her daily walk in the garden, and had little need to say much, for the Abbe loved to hear