Mordaunt’s face was as stone.  “I shouldn’t go on if I were you,” he said.  “You have nothing whatever to gain.  As I have told you, I know already all that you can tell me upon this subject, and what I think of it is my affair alone.  It is a pity that you took the trouble to come here.  If you take my advice, you will leave me on the earliest opportunity.”

“But you are mistaken.  You do not know all.”  Impulsively Bertrand threw back the words.  “You cannot refuse to listen to me,” he said.  “I appeal to your honour, to your sense of justice.  If you knew all, as you say, you would not leave her thus.  If you believed her to be blameless—­as she is—­you would not abandon her in her hour of trouble.  I tell you, monsieur”—­his breath quickened suddenly and he caught his hand to his side—­“if you know the truth, you are committing a crime for which no penalty is enough severe.”

He broke off, panting, and turned towards the open window.

Mordaunt said nothing whatever.  His face was set like a mask.  The only sign of feeling he gave was in the slow clenching of one hand.

After a few moments Bertrand wheeled round.  “See!” he said.  “I have followed you here to tell you the truth face to face, as I shall tell it—­bientot—­to the good God.  You shall bind me by any oath that you will, though it should be enough for you that I have nothing at all to gain, as you have said.  I shall hide nothing from you.  I shall extenuate nothing.  I shall tell you only the truth, man to man, as my heart knows it.  For her sake, you will listen, yes?”

His voice slipped into sudden pleading.  He stretched out his hands persuasively to the impassive Englishman, who still seemed to be looking through him rather than at him.  He waited for an answer, but none came.

“Eh bien!” he said, with a quick sigh of disappointment.  “Then I shall speak in spite of you.  I begin with our meeting four years ago among the rocks of Valpre.  It was an accident by which we met.  I was working to complete my invention, and for the greater privacy I had taken it to the old cave of the contrabandists upon the shore—­a place haunted by the spirits of the dead—­so that I was safe from interruption.  Or so I thought, till one afternoon she came to me like a goddess from the sea.  She had cut her foot among the stones, and I bound it for her and carried her back to Valpre.  She was only a child then, with eyes clear as the sunshine.  She trusted herself to me as if I had been her brother.  That is easy to comprehend, is it not?”

Again he paused for an answer, but Mordaunt said no word; his lips were firmly closed.