k.

"You have promised, Francois," she said with dignity, "and a French
gentleman keeps his word."

Francois bowed.

He was not a French gentleman, but he was anxious that this girl should
think he was, and to that end had told her stories of his birth which
had apparently impressed her.

"Now will you do something more for me?"

"I will do anything in the world, Jean," he cried passionately, and
again a restraining hand fell on his shoulder.

"Then sit down and write; your French is so much better than mine."

"What shall I write?" he asked. She had never called upon him for proof
of his scholarship, and he was childishly eager to reveal to the woman
he loved attainments of which he had no knowledge.

"Write, 'Dear Mademoiselle'." He obeyed.

"'_have returned from London, and have confessed to Madame
Meredith that I have forged her name and have drawn L100,000
from her bank----_'"

"Why do I write this, Jean?" he asked in surprise.

"I will tell you one day--go on. Francois," she continued her
dictation.

"'_And now I have learnt that Madame Meredith loves me. There
is only one end to this--that which you see----_'"

"Do you intend passing suspicion to somebody else?" he asked, evidently
fogged, "but why should I say----?"

She stopped his mouth with her hand.

"How wonderful you are, Jean," he said, admiringly, as he blotted the
paper and handed it to her. "So that if this matter is traced to
you----" She looked into his eyes and smiled.

"There will be trouble for somebody," she said, softly, as she put the
paper in her pocket.

Suddenly, before she could realise what was happening he had her in his
arms, his lips pressed against hers.

"Jean, Jean!" he muttered. "You adorable woman!"

Gently she pressed him back and she was still smiling, though her eyes
were like granite.

"Gently, Francois," she said, "you must have patience!"

She slipped through the door and closed it behind her, and even in her
then state of mind she did not slam it, nor did she hurry down the
stairs, but went out, taking her time, and was back in the house without
her absence having been noticed. Her face, reflected in her long mirror,
was serene in its repose, but within her a devil was alive, hungry for
destruction. No man had roused the love of Jean Briggerland, but at
least one had succeeded in bringing to life a consuming hate which, for
the time being, absorbed her.

From the moment