Croisset showed no signs of the fight in the forest which had occurred not more than ten minutes before.  He was wearing a pair of laced Hudson’s Bay boots.  In the struggle in the snow Philip’s hand had once gripped his enemy’s foot, and he knew that he had worn moccasins.  And Jean was not winded.  He was breathing easily.  And now Philip saw that behind the calmness in his eyes there was a tense and anxious inquiry.  Slowly the truth broke upon him.  It could not have been Jean with whom he had fought in the edge of the forest!  He advanced a step or two toward the half-breed, his hand still resting uncertainly on his pistol.  Not until then did Jean speak, and there was no pretence in his voice: 

“The Virgin be praised, you are not badly hurt, M’sieur?” he exclaimed, rising.  “There is a little blood on your face.  Did the glass cut you?”

“No,” said Philip.  “I overtook him in the edge of the forest.”

Not for an instant had his eyes left Croisset.  Now he saw him start.  His dark face took on a strange pallor.  He leaned forward, and his breath came in a quick gasp.

“The result?” he demanded.  “Did you kill him?”

“He escaped.”

The tense lines on Croisset’s face relaxed.  Philip turned and bolted the door.

“Sit down, Croisset,” he commanded.  “You and I are going to square things up in this room to-night.  It is quite natural that you should be glad he escaped.  Perhaps if you had fired the shot in place of putting the affair into the hands of a hired murderer the work would have been better done.  Sit down!”

Something like a smile flickered across Jean’s face as he reseated himself.  There was in it no suggestion of bravado or of defiance.  It was rather the facial expression of one who was looking beyond Philip’s set jaws, and seeing other things—­the betrayal which comes at times when one has suffered quietly for another.  It was a look which made Philip uneasy as he seated himself opposite the half-breed, and made him ashamed of the fact that he had exposed his right hand on the table, with the muzzle of his automatic turned toward Jean’s breast.  Yet he was determined to have it out with Jean now.

“You are glad that the man who tried to kill me escaped?” he repeated.

The promptness and quiet decisiveness of Jean’s answer amazed him.

“Yes, M’sieur, I am.  But the shot was not for you.  It was intended for the master of Adare House.  When I heard the shot to-night I did not know what it meant.  A little later I came to your room and found the broken window and the bullet mark in the wall.  This is M’sieur Adare’s old room, and the bullet was intended for him.  And now, M’sieur Philip, why do you say that I am responsible for the attempt to kill you, or the master?”

“You have convicted yourself,” declared Philip, his eyes ablaze.  “A moment ago you said you were glad the assassin escaped!”