Jeremy's face grew grim, but his voice was gentle.
"Miss Durrell, I know a good deal. I can guess still more."
"This Chevalier de Rothan, this so-called émigré——"
"Ah, now we have it."
"They were to fight a duel in Darvel's Wood."
The forward thrust of Jeremy's jaw became more pronounced.
"What! And the lad never told me! He went out alone against that Irish blackguard! Good God——!"
A quivering upper lip and a pair of brown eyes brought him back to Nance's outlook upon life.
"Miss Durrell, you'll forgive me—"
Her hands were gripping the folds of her dress.