Mordaunt’s mouth hardened.  He made no response.

“Surely you don’t—­you can’t—­think evil of her?” Jack said.

Mordaunt raised his eyes slowly.  “You have said enough,” he said, with quiet emphasis.  “As for this portrait, take it if you value it.  I never cared for it myself.”

“Never cared for it!” Jack ejaculated.

“No.  It never conveyed very much to me.  I did not regard her in that light.”

“Then you never knew her,” Jack said with conviction.

“Possibly not.”  Mordaunt turned away once more.  “Most of us are blind,” he said, “until our eyes are opened.  I am going to send you in some breakfast if you are sure you prefer to stay here.”

He went out quietly, leaving Jack marvelling at his own docility.  The last thing he would have expected of himself was that at the end of the interview he also would be accepting the hospitality of the man he had come almost prepared to shoot.  The turn of events forced him into a species of unwilling admiration.  There was no denying the fact that, mismanage his own private affairs as he might, this was a born leader of men.

Mordaunt himself brought him his sister’s telegram some time later.

He remained in the room while Jack opened it, but he betrayed no impatience to hear its contents.  As for Jack, he stood for several seconds with the message in his hand before he looked up.

“I suppose you will have to see it,” he said then reluctantly.

“That is as you like.”

But though the words were emotionless, Mordaunt’s eyes searched his face, and in answer to them Jack held out the paper.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“In no danger.  Keep Trevor away,” was the message it contained.

“As I thought,” Mordaunt observed, and handed it back without further comment.

“She will be wanting you presently,” Jack said uneasily, “You know how women change.”

And Mordaunt smiled, a grim, set smile.  “Yes, I know,” he answered.

CHAPTER IV

THE DESIRE OF HIS HEART

The night was very hot, even hotter than the day had been.  Only the whirring electric fan kept the air moving.  It might have been midsummer instead of the end of September.

Bertrand de Montville, seated in an easy-chair and propped by cushions, raised his head from time to time and gasped for breath.  He held a newspaper in his hand, for sleep was out of the question.  He had been suffering severely during the day, but the pain had passed and only weariness remained.  His face was yet drawn with the memory of it, and his eyes were heavily shadowed.  But the inherent pluck of the man was still apparent.  His pride of bearing had not waned.