Yes, it was the truth. She had blundered upon it unawares, and now she surveyed it horror-stricken, remembering Bertrand's warning that the knowledge of evil was a poisonous thing. So must Eve have felt when first her eyes were opened to the wisdom of the gods.
She was free at last, and sped up to her room. The scribbled message that reached her fiancé an hour later was only just legible, but it spoke more eloquently of the state of mind of the writer than she knew.
"DEAR TREVOR,—
"Aunt Philippa says you are angry with me. Please don't be. Really there is nothing to be angry about, though she thinks there is, and she is going to try and persuade you to send Bertie away. Trevor, don't listen to her, will you? And, whatever you do, don't tell her about Valpré. I'm very bothered about it. Do be as kind as you always are to
"Your loving
CHRIS."
Mordaunt's answering note reached her late in the afternoon just before she set forth for her ride in the Park with Jack.
"MY DEAR LITTLE CHRIS,—
"My love to your Aunt Philippa, and I am just off to Paris for the inside of a week. I shall be back for your cousin's wedding. Ask her to reserve her lecture till then. Our friend Bertrand sends his amitiés. I send nothing, for you have it all.
"Yours,
TREVOR."
Chris kissed the note with a rush of tenderness—greater than she had ever managed to bestow upon the writer. That brief response to her appeal stirred her as she had never been stirred before. It was sweet of him to trust her so. She would never forget it, never, as long as she lived.