“May I see monsieur unmasked?” she said.

Mechanically he removed the mask, and she looked into his face earnestly.  She gave no sign whether she expected to recognize him, but it would seem that his face satisfied her, for she undid her mask and stood before him.  She was a woman, and beauty must ever be the keenest weapon in woman’s armory; there was a little glad triumph in her heart as she realized that this man bowed before her beauty.  Barrington was startled that a mask could hide so much.

“Monsieur has been somewhat misled, it would seem, by his friend who was witty at my expense and inclined to exaggerate.”

“I have been deceived, and I shall punish him for the lie,” Barrington answered.

“I am at a loss to understand the deceit,” she answered.  “You have a message for me.  I may find some explanation in it.”

“Upon the roadside as I—­” Barrington began, and then stopped.  “Mademoiselle, forgive me, but such deceit makes a man suspicious.  I was told to seek Mademoiselle St. Clair in a fat, ugly, simpering woman, and I find her in—­in you.  How can I be certain that you are Mademoiselle St. Clair?”

“I see your difficulty.  Your doubt does not anger me.  Let me think.  Will it help you if I speak the name Lucien?”

“It seems convincing.  Heaven grant, mademoiselle, that you are as honorable as you are beautiful.  I must needs believe so and trust you.  To you I can prove that I am an honest messenger,” and Barrington tore from the lining of his coat a tiny packet of tissue paper.  “I have to give you this little golden star, your gift to Lucien.”

She took the packet with quick, trembling fingers, turned to the table, and by the light of the lantern unfolded the paper.  With a little clink the star fell upon the table.

“This?  This?” she said, starting back and pointing at it.

Barrington made a step forward at her sudden question, and then stood still, staring at the token.

It was no star of gold which lay in the circle of the lantern light, but a common thing of iron, roughly made, rusted and worthless.

CHAPTER V

THE WOOD END

Richard Barrington knew that he had fallen into some trap, the exact nature of it and the danger he could not know.  After a pause, a long pause it seemed to Jeanne St. Clair, long enough for a villain to fashion a lying tale, he turned to her.

“It seems, mademoiselle, that I have been robbed as well as deceived.”

“In spite of that,” she said, pointing to the iron token, “I am inclined to listen to the message.”

“Mademoiselle, I regret that I ever undertook to carry it.  I had other business in hand, but an oath to a dead man was binding.”

“A dead man?  Lucien?”

“I know nothing of Lucien.  For all I know he may already be making merry at my discomfiture.  The dead man was one Rouzet, or so he told me, and he called himself your servant.”