He paused a moment, then turned her face tenderly up to his own, and kissed it.  “And you don’t like the Valpre plan?” he said, with great gentleness.

She hesitated.

“We can go elsewhere if you prefer it,” he said.  “The court-martial will probably only take a few days.  We can stay somewhere near while it is in progress.  But I must have you with me wherever it is.”

He spoke the last words with his arms closely enfolding her.  She turned with sudden impulse and clasped him round the neck.

“Oh, Trevor,” she murmured brokenly, “you are good to me—­you are good!”

“My darling,” he whispered back, “your happiness is mine—­always.”

She made a choked sound of dissent.  “I’m horribly selfish,” she said, with a sob.

“No, dear, no.  I understand.  I ought to have thought of it before.”

She knew that he was thinking of Cinders, and that a return to the old haunts could but serve to reopen a wound that was scarcely closed.  She was thankful that he interpreted her reluctance thus, even while she marvelled to herself as she realized how far she had travelled since the bitter day on which she had parted with her favourite.  Looking back, she saw now clearly what that tragedy had meant to her.  It had been indeed the commencement of a new stage in her life’s journey.  It was on that day that she had finally stepped forth from the summer fields of her childhood, and she knew that she would wander in them no more for ever.

The thought went through her with a dart of pain.  They had been very green, those fields, and the great thoroughfare which now she trod seemed cruelly hard to her unaccustomed feet.

A sharp sigh escaped her as she gently withdrew herself from her husband’s arms.  “Shall we talk about it to-morrow?” she said.

CHAPTER IV

“MINE OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND”

Sitting in his writing-room with Bertrand that night Mordaunt imparted the news that concerned him so nearly.

The young Frenchman listened in almost unbroken silence, betraying neither surprise nor even a very great measure of interest.  He sat and smoked, with eyes downcast, sometimes fidgeting a little with the fingers of one hand on the arm of his chair, but otherwise displaying no sign of agitation.

Only at the end of the narration did he glance up, and that was but momentarily, when Mordaunt said, “It transpires that this Rodolphe had an old score to pay off.  You were enemies?”

Bertrand removed his cigarette to reply, “That is true.”

“You once fought a duel with him?” Mordaunt proceeded.

Bertrand’s eyelids quivered, but he did not raise them.  He merely answered, “Yes.”

“That fact will probably figure in the evidence,” Mordaunt said.  “The cause of the duel is at present unknown.”

“It is—­immaterial,” Bertrand said, in a very low voice.  He paused a moment, then said, “And you, you will be at the trial to report?”