She remembered the face which had looked out at her only a few hours ago, and the face that laughed at her now was a revelation.  There was color in the cheeks, so bright a color she did not remember to have noticed before, not even in those moments when she had been tempted to compare herself favorably with other women; there was a sparkle in the eyes that never since the flight from Paris to Beauvais had she seen in them.  It was a joyous, happy girl who looked back at her from the depths of the mirror, and Jeanne turned away wondering.  It was natural she should feel safe now Richard Barrington had come, but how was the great joy in her heart to be accounted for?  Would it have been there had it been Lucien who had come to save her?  The question seemed to ask itself, without any will of hers, and the little room seemed suddenly alive with the answer.  It almost frightened her, yet still she was happy.  She sank on her knees beside the bed and her head was lowered before the crucifix.  The soul of a pure, brave woman was outpoured in thankfulness; “Mother of God, for this help vouchsafed I thank thee.  Keep me this night, this week, always.  Bring me peace.  Bring me—­” The head sank lower, the lips not daring to ask too much.

The morning came with sunlight in it, cold but clear.  Jeanne peeped from her window and was satisfied, peeped into the mirror, and wondered no more at the smiling face there.  She knew why such joy had come.  She could not reason about it, she did not attempt to do so; the knowledge was all sufficient.  It was Thursday morning.  Saturday was very near.  What did it signify?  Nothing.  To-day it would be like spring in the garden.

Barrington greeted Jeanne with the studied courtesy of a comparative stranger.

“We must be careful,” he whispered, “there are certain to be watchful eyes.  Show no interest or astonishment in what I tell you as we eat.  Remember, you are merely being courteous to a new arrival of whose existence you have known something in the past.”

“I understand.  I shall listen very carefully.”

“I am greatly honored, mademoiselle, by your letter.  I need not ask whether you trust me.”

“Indeed, no,” she answered.

“It might easily have come into my hands too late,” Barrington went on.  “We are both victims of deception, and where the truth lies I cannot tell even now.  I will recount what has happened; you may be able to throw some light upon it.”

Barrington told her everything from his first meeting with Raymond Latour when a filthy crowd was yelling round a prisoner, to the moment when her letter had been handed to him by Seth.

“Your letter gave me an idea, mademoiselle.  To help you I must become an inmate of this house.  Yesterday Seth brought me here, posing as a wealthy eccentric relative anxious to place me in safety.  I am a little mad, and there is no knowing what folly I might commit were I allowed to continue at liberty.  My stay here is likely to be a long one, and my relatives care little what they pay so long as I am out of their hands.  You may guess perhaps that Dr. Legrand asked few questions with such a golden bribe before him.  Now, mademoiselle, what do you know of this Raymond Latour?”