“No one else has recognized me?” he asked.

“I believe not.”

He drew a quick breath of relief. “Bien!  It has been an affair tres difficile.  I have feared detection mille fois.  Yet I did not expect you to recognize me so soon.”

“You see, I happen to know you rather well,” Mordaunt said.

The Frenchman spread out his hands protestingly.  The excitement of the adventure had flushed his face and kindled his eyes.  He looked younger and more ardent than Mordaunt had ever seen him.  The weariness that had so grown upon him during his exile had fallen from him like a cloak.  “But you do not know me at all!” he said.

Mordaunt passed over the remark as if he had not heard it.  “What have you come for?” he asked.

“To see you, monsieur.”  The reply was as direct as the question.  A momentary challenge shone in Bertrand’s eyes as he made it.

But Mordaunt remained coldly unimpressed.  “It was not a very wise move on your part,” he remarked.  “You will be arrested if you are discovered.  The authorities are not ready for you yet.  They are quite capable of suppressing you for good and all if it suits their purpose.”

“I know it.  But that is of no importance after to-night.”  Bertrand stood and faced him squarely.  “After to-night,” he said, “they may do what they will.  I shall have accomplished that which I came to do.”

“And that?” said Mordaunt.  He looked back into the eager eyes with the aloofness of a stranger.  His manner was too impersonal to express either enmity or contempt.

The keenness began to die out of Bertrand’s face, and a certain dignity took its place.  “That,” he made answer, “is to tell you the truth in such a fashion that, although you think that I am a thief, you will believe it.”

“I do not think that you are in a position to tell me anything that I do not know already,” Mordaunt answered quietly.  “By the way, it may interest you to hear that the affair of the cheque has been cleared up.  I wronged you there, but I do not think that I was responsible for the wrong.”

“I was responsible,” Bertrand said, his voice very low.  “I deceived you.  And for that you will not pardon me, no?”

But the level grey eyes looked through and beyond him.  “That,” Mordaunt said, “is a matter of small importance now.  Deceptions of that kind are never excusable in my opinion; but as I do not expect you to share my point of view, it seems scarcely worth while to discuss it.”

Bertrand bowed stiffly.  “It is not of that that I desire to speak.  Of myself you will think—­what you will.  I have merited—­and I will endure—­your displeasure.  But of la petite”—­he paused—­“of Christine”—­he faltered a little, and finally amended—­“of madame votre femme, you will think only that which is good.  For that is her nature, that.  And for me,” his voice throbbed with sudden passion, “I would rather bear any insult than that you should think otherwise of her.  For she is pure and innocent as a child.  Do you not see that I would sooner die than harm her?  And it has always, always been so.  You believe me, no?”