e heard Mordaunt's step outside more than half an hour later
did he move, and then very abruptly he returned to the writing-table and
seized the pen anew. He was writing with feverish rapidity when Mordaunt
entered.

Very quietly Mordaunt came up and looked over his shoulder. "My boy," he
said, "I am very sorry, but that is not legible."

His tone was unreservedly kind, and Bertrand jerked up his head as if
surprised.

He surveyed the page before him with pursed lips, then flashed a quick
look into Mordaunt's face.

"It is true," he admitted, with a rueful smile. "I also am sorry."

"Leave it," Mordaunt said. "You are looking fagged, Yes, I mean it. It
will keep."

"But I have done nothing!" Bertrand protested, with outspread hands.

"No? Well, I don't believe you ought to be doing anything at present.
Come and sit down." Then, peremptorily, as Bertrand hesitated: "I won't
have you overworking yourself. Understand that! I have had trouble
enough to get you off the sick list as it is."

He spoke with that faint smile of his that placed most men at their ease
with him. Bertrand turned impulsively and grasped his hand.

"You have been--you are--more than a brother to me, monsieur," he said,
with feeling. "And I--I--ah! Permit me to tell you--I--am glad that
Mademoiselle has placed herself in your keeping. It was a great surprise,
yes. But I am glad--from my heart. She will be safe--and happy--with
you."

He spoke with great earnestness; his sincerity was shining in his eyes.
Mordaunt, looking straight down into them, saw no other emotion than
sheer friendliness, a friendliness that touched him, coming from one who
was so nearly friendless.

"I shall do my best to make her so," he made grave reply. "She has been
telling me about you, Bertrand."

"Ah!" The Frenchman's eyes interrogated him for a moment and instantly
fell away. "I am surprised," he said, "to be remembered after so long.
No, I had not forgotten her; but that is different, _n'est-ce pas_? I
think that no one would easily forget her." He smiled as though
involuntarily at some reminiscence. "_Christine et le bon Cinders_!" he
said in his soft voice. "We were all friends together. We were--" again
his eyes darted up to meet the Englishman's level scrutiny--"what you
call 'pals,' monsieur."

Mordaunt smiled. "So I gathered. It happened at Valpre, I understand."

Bertrand nodded. His eyes grew dreamy, grew remote. "Yes," he said
slowly, "it happene