encounter with Rodolphe.  I knew that evening that something had passed between them; what it was she would not tell me.  I tried to persuade her then to let me tell you the whole truth.  But she was terrified—­la pauvre petite.  She thought that you would be angry with her.  She feared that you would ask questions that she could not answer.  She had kept the secret so long that she dared not reveal it.”

“In short,” Mordaunt said, “she was afraid that I should suspect her of caring for you.”

His words were too quiet to sound brutal, but they were wholly without mercy.  Bertrand’s hands gripped the arms of his chair, and he winced visibly.

Yet he answered with absolute candour.  “Yes, monsieur.  I believe she was.  I believe that it was the beginning of all this trouble.  But had I known that Rodolphe would use his knowledge to extort money from her, I would not have yielded—­no, not one inch—­to her importunity.  I did not know it.  Christine was afraid of me also.  I had fought one duel for her; perhaps she dreaded another.  And so the mischief was done.”

“And who told you that she had been blackmailed?” Mordaunt demanded curtly.

Bertrand made answer without hesitation.  “I heard that two days ago from Max.”

“Max?”

“Her brother, Max Wyndham.”

“And who told him?”

Bertrand’s black brows went up.  “I believe it was his cousin Captain Forest.”

“Ah!  So he sent you, did he?  I might have known he would.”  For the first time Mordaunt spoke with bitterness.

“Monsieur, no one sent me.”  There was dignity in Bertrand’s rejoinder, a dignity that compelled belief.  “I came as soon as I knew what had happened.  I came to redress a great wrong.  I came to restore to you that which is your own property—­of which, in truth, you have never been deprived.  With your permission, I will finish.  On the night of the fireworks, the night you were in London, I—­betrayed myself.  I cannot tell you how it happened.  I know only that my love became suddenly a flame that I could not hide.  She had been in danger, and me—­I lost my self-control.  The veil was withdrawn, I could hide my love no more.  I showed her my heart just as it was, and—­she showed me hers.”

Bertrand rose with none of his customary impetuosity and stood in front of Mordaunt, meeting the steady eyes with equal steadiness.

“I tell you the truth,” he said.  “We understand each other, and we love each other.  But you—­you are even now more to her than I have ever been.  She has need of you as she has never had of me.  You are the reality in her life.  I”—­he spread out his hands—­“I am the romance.”

He paused as if to gather his strength, then went rapidly on.  But his face was grey.  He looked like a man who had travelled fast and far.  “Monsieur,” he said very earnestly, “believe me, I do not stand between you.  I love her—­I love you both—­too much for that.  My one desire, my one prayer, is for her happiness—­and yours.  Do not, I beseech you, make me an obstacle.  You are her protector.  Do not leave her unprotected!”