"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 £100,000 from her bank——'"
"Why do I write this, Jean?" he asked in surprise.
"I will tell you one day—go on. François," 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.