He shook his head and pointed to the parchment--to the line in French.

"Francis Falconnet was under the same roof with her--or at least in easy
call--when she wrote that, Jack. He is no longer my rival--nor yours."

His word set me thinking, and I would fall to picking out the strands
that jealous wrath had woven for me into the web of happenings. Setting
aside the story brought by Ephraim Yeates, there was no certain proof
that she had ever favored the Englishman; nay, more, till I had come to
be madly jealous of Falconnet, I had made sure that Jennifer was the
favored one.

At this, as one sees a landscape struck out clear and vivid by the
lightning's flash, I saw the true meaning of the word the hunter had
brought--saw it and went upon my knees to grope blindly for the sword I
had let fall when Dick had found the arrow.

"What is it, Jack?" he asked, gently.

"My sword!" I gasped. "We should have been half-way there by this.
Yeates was misled. 'Tis Falconnet she fears. She was at bay--hark you,
at bay and fair desperate. That word of hers to the baronet was her poor
pitiful defiance built on her trust in us, and we have lain here--"

He found the sword and thrust it into my hand, crying:

"Come on! You can strew the dust and ashes on me later. You said you
loved her the better, and I do believe it now, Jack! You trusted her, as
I did not. We'll fight as one man to cut her out of this coil, whatever
it may be; and after that is done I'll make my bow and leave you a fair