But into the rage, the desperation in the wild eyes, was now creeping an eager look—­not of hope, but such a look as might be in eyes that were striving to see through darkness, looking for a glimmer of day in the black hush of morning before the dawn.  It was pitiful to see the strong man tossing on the flood of disordered understanding, a willing castaway, yet stretching out a hand to be saved.

“Oh, last night, Mennaval, you say, and to-day—­this!” Stafford held up the letter.  “This means nothing against her, except indiscretion, and indiscretion which would have been nothing if the man had not been what he is.  He is of the slime.  He does not matter, except that he has dared—!”

“He has dared, by God—!”

All Byng’s rage came back, the lacerated pride, the offended manhood, the self-esteem which had been spattered by the mud of slander, by the cynical defense, or the pitying solicitude of his friends—­of De Lancy Scovel, Barry Whalen, Sobieski the Polish Jew, Fleming, Wolff, and the rest.  The pity of these for him—­for Rudyard Byng, because the flower in his garden, his Jasmine-flower, was swept by the blast of calumny!  He sprang from his chair with an ugly oath.

But Stafford stepped in front of him.  “Sit down, Byng, or damn yourself forever.  If she is innocent—­and she is—­do you think she would ever live with you again, after you had dragged her name into the dust of the criminal courts and through the reek of the ha’penny press?  Do you think Jasmine would ever forgive you for suspecting her?  If you want to drive her from you forever, then kill him, and go and tell her that you suspect her.  I know her—­I have known her all her life, long before you came.  I care what becomes of her.  She has many who care what becomes of her—­her father, her brother, many men, and many women who have seen her grow up without a mother.  They understand her, they believe in her, because they have known her over all the years.  They know her better than you.  Perhaps they care for her—­ perhaps any one of them cares for her far more than you do.”

Now there came a new look into the big, staring eyes.  Byng was as one fascinated; light was breaking in on his rage, his besmirched pride, his vengeance; hope was stealing tremblingly into his face.

“She was more to me than all the world—­than twenty worlds.  She—­”

He hesitated, then his voice broke and his body suddenly shook violently, as tears rose in the far, deep wells of feeling and tried to reach the fevered eyes.  He leaned his head in his big, awkward hands.

Stafford saw the way of escape for Jasmine slowly open out, and went on quickly.  “You have neglected her “—­Rudyard’s head came up in angry protest—­“not wilfully; but you have neglected her.  You have been too easy.  You should lead, not follow, where a woman is concerned.  All women are indiscreet, all are a little dishonourable on opportunity; but not in