“There is only one other thing to add.  I have shown Brokaw a ray of hope.  He will hand over to you all his rights in the company and the six hundred thousand in the treasury.  He will sign over to you, as repurchase money for whatever stock you wish to call in, practically his whole fortune—­five hundred thousand.  He will disappear, completely and forever.  Eileen and I will hunt out our own little corner in a new world, and you will never hear of us again.  This is what we have planned to do, if you show us mercy.”

Philip had not spoken during Gregson’s terrible recital.  He sat like one turned to stone.  Rage, wonder, and horror burned so fiercely in his heart that they consumed all evidence of emotion.  And to arouse him now there came an interruption that sent the blood flushing back into his face—­a low knock at the closed door, a slow lifting of the latch, the appearance of Jeanne.  Through her tears she saw only the man she loved, and sobbing aloud now, like a child, she stretched out her arms to him; and when he sprang to her and caught her to his breast, she whispered his name again and again, and stroked his face with her hands.  Love, overpowering, breathing of heaven, was in her touch, and as she lifted her face to him of her own sweet will now, entreating him to kiss her and to comfort her for what she had lost, he saw Gregson moving with bowed head, like a stricken thing, toward the outer door.  In that moment the things that had been in his heart melted away, and raising a hand above his head, he called, softly: 

“Tom Gregson, my old chum, if you have found a love like this, thank your God.  My own love I would lose if I destroyed yours.  Go back to Eileen.  Tell Brokaw that I accept his offers.  And when you come back in a few days, bring Eileen.  My Jeanne will love her.”

And Jeanne, looking from Philip’s face, saw Gregson, for the first time, as he passed through the door.

XXIV

Both Philip and Jeanne were silent for some moments after Gregson had gone; their only movement was the gentle stroking of Philip’s hand over the girl’s soft hair.  Their hearts were full, too full for speech.  And yet he knew that upon his strength depended everything now.  The revelations of Gregson, which virtually ended the fight against him personally, were but trivial in his thoughts compared with the ordeal which was ahead of Jeanne.  Both Pierre and her father were dead, and, with the exception of Jeanne, no one but he knew of the secret that had died with them.  He could feel against him the throbbing of the storm that was passing in the girl’s heart, and in answer to it he said nothing in words, but held her to him with a gentleness that lifted her face, quiet and beautiful, so that her eyes looked steadily and questioningly into his own.

“You love me,” she said, simply, and yet with a calmness that sent a curious thrill through him.