“And the real strength underlying this resolve?  Is it not that we both love her?”

Barrington drew back a little, and felt the color tingle in his face.  Since the moment he had first seen her this woman had hardly been absent from his thoughts, yet from the first he had known that she was pledged to another man, and therefore she was sacred.  Deep down in his nature, set there perchance by some long-forgotten ancestor, cavalier in spirit, yet with puritan tendencies in thought, there was a stronger sense of right and wrong than is given to most men perhaps.  As well might he allow himself to love another’s wife, as to think of love for another man’s promised wife.  The standard of morality had been easy to keep, since, until now, love for neither wife nor maid had tempted him; but during the last two or three days the fierce testing fires had burned within him.  It had been easy to think evil of the man who stood before him, easy to hope that there might be evil in him, so that Jeanne St. Clair being free because of this evil, he might have the right to win her if he could.  Lucien Bruslart’s quiet statement came like an accusation; it showed him in a moment that in one sense at any rate he had fallen before the temptation, for if he had not allowed himself to think of love, he had yielded to the mean wish that her lover might prove unworthy.  It helped him also to rise superior to the temptation.

“I may have had ungenerous thoughts, too,” he said, “but they have gone.”

“And only love remains,” Bruslart returned, the slight rise in his tone making the words a question rather than a statement.

“Your love, monsieur, my admiration and respect.  These I certainly have for the lady who is to be your wife.  Your love will hardly grudge me them.”

“I believe I might have found a dangerous rival, were you not a man of honor,” said Bruslart.  “We understand each other better than we did this morning.  Heavens! what a wealth of hours seem to have passed since then.  We fight together for mademoiselle’s safety.  I will go at once to the Abbaye, that is the prison you think they were going to.  And you, monsieur, what will you do?”

“I shall set my servant to watch Latour, and there are one or two others in this city whose movements will interest me.”

“You must be careful of Latour.”

“He will be wise to be careful of me too.  There is some aristocrat Raymond Latour would do all in his power to help.  That is a secret we may use against him if necessary.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“We became friends over a bottle of wine.”

“Ah, men boast and tell lies over their wine,” Bruslart answered, “and for his own ends Latour can lie very convincingly.  Will you come to me here to-morrow night?  I may have accomplished something by then.”

They left the house together, but parted in the street, Barrington returning to the house of Monsieur Fargeau to plan with Seth the close watching of Latour’s movements, Bruslart going in the direction of the prison of the Abbaye.