He went over again all the details of the story he had heard, and himself filled up the links in the chain. How brutal it was of Michael to have induced her to stay--even if she remained of her own accord--and then the frightful thoughtless recklessness of letting her go off afterwards just because he was angry! Wild fury blazed up against his old friend. The poor darling little girl to be left to suffer all alone! Oh! how tender and passionately devoted he would have been under the same circumstances. Would Michael ever make her happy or take proper care of her? He paced his room, his mind racked with pain. Every single turn of events came back to him, and his own incredible blindness. How had he been so unseeing? How, to begin with, had he not recalled the name of Sabine as being the one he had read long ago in the paper as that of the girl whom Michael had gone through the ceremony of marriage with? It had faded completely from his memory. Everything seemed to have combined to lead him on to predestined disaster and misery--even in Sabine's and Michael's combining to keep the matter secret from him not to cause him pain--all had augmented the suffering now. If--but there was no good in contemplating ifs--what he had to do was to think clearly as to what would be the wisest course to secure his darling's happiness. That must be his first consideration. After that, he must face his own cruel fate with what courage he could command. Her happiness could only come through the divorce proceedings being stopped at once, and in her being free to go back to the man whom she loved. Then the aspect that Michael had been willing to do a really fine thing for the sake of friendship struck him--perhaps he was worthy of Sabine, after all; and they were young and absolutely suited to one another. No, the wickedness would have been if he, whose youth had passed, had claimed her and come between. He was only now going through the same agony his friend must have done, and he had a stronger motive to help him, in the wish to secure the joy of this adored woman, whereas Michael knew he was condemning her to sorrow as well as himself, and had been strong enough to do it simply from honor and friendship. No, he had no right to think of him as brutal or not fine; and now it was for him, Henry, to bring back happiness to his darling and to his old friend. He sat down in a chair beside the fire and set himself to think. To have to take some decided course came as a relief. He would go out into the village and telegraph to Michael to come to Heronac at once. He was in Paris, staying at the Ritz, he knew; he could be there to-morrow--on Christmas Day! Surely that was well, when peace and good-will towards men should be over all the earth--and he, Henry, would meet him at the house of the Pere Anselme and explain all to him, and then take him back to Sabine. He would not see her again until then.