She shook her head. "No, François," she said in that low plaintive voice of hers, "I could not deceive you in a matter so important to myself." He stood watching her, his breast heaving, his burning eyes devouring her, then: "You will give me back that letter I wrote, Jean?" he said. "I will give it to you to-morrow." "To-night," he said, and took both her hands in his. "I am sure I am right. It is too dangerous a letter to be in existence, Jean, dangerous for you and for me--you will let me have it to-night?" She hesitated. "It is in my room," she said, an unnecessary statement, and, in the circumstances, a dangerous one, for his eyes dropped to the bag that hung at her wrist. "It is there," he said. "Jean darling, do as I ask," he pleaded. "You know, every time I think of that letter I go cold. I was a madman when I wrote it." "I have not got it here," she said steadily. She tried to draw back, but she was too late. He gripped her wrists and pulled the bag roughly from her hand. "Forgive me, but I know I am right," he began, and then like a fury she flew at him, wrenched the bag from his hand, and by the very violence of her attack, flung him backward. He stared at her, and the colour faded from his face leaving it a dead white. "What is this you are trying to do?" he glowered at her. "I will see you in the morning, François," she said and turned. Before she could reach the head of the stairs his arm was round her and he had dragged her back. "My friend," he said between his teeth, "there is something in this matter which is bad for me." "Let me go," she breathed and struck at his face. For a full minute they struggled, and then the door opened and Mr. Briggerland came in, and at the sight of his livid face, Mordon released his hold. "You swine!" hissed the big man. His fist shot out and Mordon went down with a crash to the ground. For a moment he was stunned, and then with a snarl he turned over on his side and whipped a revolver from his hip pocket. Before he could fire, the girl had gripped the pistol and wrenched it from his hand. "Get up," said Briggerland sternly. "Now explain to me, my friend, what you mean by this disgraceful attack upon mademoiselle." The man rose and dusted himself mechanically and there was that in his face which boded no good to Mr. Briggerland. Before he could speak Jean intervened. "Father," she said quietly, "you have no right to strike François." "François," spluttered Briggerland, his dark face purple with rage. "François," she repeated calmly. "It is right that you should know that François and I will be married next week." Mr. Briggerland's jaw dropped. "What?" he almost shrieked. She nodded. "We are going to be married next week," she said, "and the little scene you witnessed has nothing whatever to do with you."