THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
man and then at Mistress Clerke for the solution of the enigma. But Mistress Barbara had sunk upon the couch in an agony of fear. A moment before she had prayed for this interruption. Now that it had come she was in a terror as to its consequences. She made no reply, but looked at the two men who stood a few feet apart with lowering looks—the Englishman flushed red with anger, the Frenchman cool, impassive, dangerous.
Ferrers spoke first. He stepped a pace or two towards the Frenchman, his brow gathered, his shoulders forward, menace in every line of his figure.
“You have dared to force your way into this house?”
The elbow was bent and the fist was clinched, and an exclamation burst from Mistress Barbara, who was gazing horror-struck at the impending brutality. But the Frenchman did not move. The only sign of anything unusual in his appearance was the look in his eyes, which met those of the Englishman with an angry glitter of defiance. If Ferrers had meant per-
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