e irrevocableness of my vow. I owe,
perhaps, my father's life to your timely intervention and for this I
must be grateful, but . . ."

Her voice broke in a kind of passionate sob, and it took her a moment or
two to recover herself, even while Clyffurde stood by, mute and with
well-nigh broken heart, his very soul so filled with sorrow for her that
there was no room in it even for resentment.

"Father let us go now," Crystal said after a while with brusque
transition and in a steady voice; "no purpose can be served by further
recriminations."

"None, my dear," said the Comte in his usual polished manner.
"Personally I have felt all along that explanations could but aggravate
the unpleasantness of the present position. Mr. Clyffurde understands
perfectly, I am sure. He had his axe to grind--whether personal or
political we really do not care to know--we are not likely ever to meet
again. All we can do now is to thank him for his timely intervention on
our behalf and . . ."

"And brand him a liar," broke in Clyffurde almost involuntarily and with
bitter vehemence.

"Your pardon, Monsieur," retorted the Comte coldly, "neither my daughter
nor I have done that. It is your deeds that condemn you, your own
admissions and the word of M. de St. Genis. Would you perchance suggest
that he lied?"

"Oh, no," rejoined Clyffurde with perfect calm, "it is I who lied, of
course."

He had said this very slowly and as if speaking with mature
deliberation: not raising his voice, nor yet allowing it to quiver from
any stress of latent emotion. And yet there was something in the tone of
it, something in the man's attitude, that suggested such a depth of
passion that, quite instinctively, the Comte remained silent and awed.
For the moment, however, Clyffurde seemed to have forgotten the older
man's presence; wounded in every fibre of his being by the woman whom he
loved so tenderly and so devotedly, he had spoken only to her,
compelling her attention and stirring--even by this simple admission of
a despicable crime--an emotion in her which she could not--would not
define.

She turned large inquiring eyes on him, into which she tried to throw
all that she felt of hatred and contempt for him. She had meant to wound
him and it seemed indeed as if she had succeeded beyond her dearest
wish. By the dim, flickering light of the street-lamp his face looked
haggard and old. The traitor was suffering almost as much as he
deserved, almost as