He recalled the look of tenderness upon her face when her eyes had met Harry Wethermill's across the baccarat-table in the Villa des Fleurs.

He gained some insight into the reason why she had clung so desperately to Hanaud's coat-sleeve yesterday.

Not merely had he saved her life.

She was lying with all her world of trust and illusion broken about her, and Hanaud had raised her up.

She had found some one whom she trusted--the big Newfoundland dog, as she expressed it.