The Sin That Was His

CHAPTER XI—“HENRI MENTONE”

VALERIE'S flushed face was lifted eagerly to his. She had caught impetuously at the sleeve of his soutane, and was urging him forward. And yet he was walking with deliberate measured tread across the green toward the presbytère. Strange how the blood seemed to be hammering feverishly at his temples! Every impulse prompted him to run, as a man running for his life, to reach the presbytère, to reach that room, to shut the door upon himself and that man whose return to consciousness meant—what? But it was too late to run now. Too late! Already the news seemed to have spread. Those who had been the last to linger at the grave of Théophile Blondin were gathering, on their way out from the little burying ground, around the door of the presbytère. It would appear bizarre, perhaps, that the curé should come tearing across the green with vestments flying simply because a man had regained consciousness! Ha, ha! Yes, very bizarre! Why should their curé run like one demented just because a man had regained consciousness! If the man were at his last gasp now, were just about to die—that would be different! He found a bitter mirth in that. Yes, decidedly, they would understand that! But as it was, they would think their curé had gone suddenly mad, perhaps, or they would think, perhaps—something else.

The dice were thrown, the card was turned—against him. His luck was out. It was like walking tamely to where the noose dangled and awaited his neck to walk toward those gaping people clustered around the door, to walk into the presbytère. But it was his only chance. Yes, there was a chance—one chance left. If he could hold out until evening, until darkness!

Until evening, until darkness—with the night before him in which to attempt his escape! But there were still eight hours or more to evening. There were only a few more steps to go before he reached the presbytère. The distance was pitifully short. In those few steps he must plan everything; plan that that accursed noose swaying before his eyes should——

“Dies illa, dies iræ—that day, a day of wrath.” What brought those words flashing through his mind! He had said them once that morning—but a little while ago—in church—as a priest—at Théophile Blondin's funeral. Damn it, they were not meant for him! They did not mean to-day. They were not premonitory. He was not beaten yet!

In the shed behind the presbytère there was a pair of the old sacristan's overalls, and an old coat, and an old hat. He had noticed them yesterday. They would serve his purpose—a man in a pair of overalls and a dirty, torn coat would not look much like a priest. Yes, yes; that would do, it was the way—when night came. He would have the darkness, and he would hide the next day, and the day after, and travel only by night. It invited pursuit of course, the one thing that next to capture itself he had struggled and plotted to avoid, but it was the only chance now, and, if luck turned again, he might succeed in making his way out of the country—when night came.

But until then! What until then? That was where his danger lay now—in those hours until darkness.

“Yes!” whispered Raymond fiercely to himself. “Yes—if only you keep your head!”

What was the matter with him? Had he forgotten! It was what he had been prepared to face that night when he had brought the priest to the presbytère, should the man then have recovered sufficiently to speak. It should be still easier now to make any one believe that the man was wandering in his mind, was not yet lucid or coherent after so long a lapse from consciousness. And the very story that the man would tell must sound like the ravings of a still disordered mind! He, Raymond, would insist that the man be kept very quiet during the day; he, Raymond, would stay beside the other's bed. Was he not the curé! Would they not obey him, show deference to his judgment and his wishes—until night came!

They were close to the presbytère now, close to the little gaping crowd that surrounded the door; and, as though conscious for the first time that she was clinging to his arm, Valérie, in sudden embarrassment at her own eagerness, hurriedly dropped her hand to her side. And, at the act, Raymond looked at her quickly, in an almost startled way. Strange! But then his brain was in turmoil! Strange that extraneous things, things that had nothing to do with the one grim purpose of saving his neck should even for an instant assert themselves! But then they—no, she—had done that before. He remembered now... when they were putting on that bandage.

When that crucifix had tangled up his hands, and she had seemed to stand before him to save him from himself... those dark eyes, that pure, sweet face, the tender, womanly sympathy—the antithesis of himself! And to-night, when night came, when the night he longed for came, when the night that meant his only chance for life came, he—what was this!—this sudden pang of yearning that ignored, with a most curious authority, as though it had the right to ignore, the desperate, almost hopeless peril that was closing down upon him, that seemed to make the coming of the night now a thing he would put off, a thing to regret and to dread, that bade him search for some other way, some other plan that would not necessitate—

“A fool and a pretty face!”—it was the gibe and sneer and prod of that inward monitor. “See all these people who are so reverently making way for you, and eying you with affection and simple humility, see the rest of them coming back from all directions because the murderer is about to tell his story—well, see how they will make way for you, and with what affection and humility they will eye you when you come out of that house again, if all the wits the devil ever gave you are not about you now!”

He spoke to her quietly, controlling his voice:

“You have not told me yet what he said, mademoiselle?”

She shook her head.

“He did not say much—only to ask where he was and for a drink of water.”

He had no time to ask more. They had reached the group before the presbytère now, and the buzz of conversation, the eager, excited exchange of questions and answers was hushed, as, with one accord, men and women made way for their curé. And Raymond, lifting his hand in a kindly, yet authoritative gesture, cautioning patience and order, mounted the steps of the presbytère.

And then, inside the doorway, Raymond quickened his step. From the closed door at the end of the short hallway came the low murmur of voices. It was Madame Lafleur probably who was there with the other now. How much, how little had the man said—since Valérie had left the room? Raymond's lips tightened grimly. It was fortunate that Madame Lafleur had so great a respect for the cloth! He had nothing to fear from her. He could make her believe anything. He could twist her around his finger, and—he opened the door softly—and stood, as though turned suddenly rigid, incapable of movement, upon the threshold—and his hand upon the doorknob closed tighter and tighter in a vise-like grip. Across the room stood, not Madame Lafleur, but Monsieur Dupont, the assistant chief of the Tournayville police, and in Monsieur Dupont's hand was a notebook, and upon Monsieur Dupont's lips, as he turned and glanced quickly toward the door, there played an enigmatical smile.

“Ah! It is Monsieur le Curé!” observed Monsieur Dupont smoothly. “Well, come in, Monsieur le Curé—come in, and shut the door. I promise you, you will find it interesting. What? Yes, very interesting!”

“Oh, Monsieur Dupont is here!”—the words seemed to come to Raymond as from some great distance behind him.

He turned. It was Valérie. Of course, it was Valérie! He had forgotten. She had naturally followed him along the hall to the door. What did this Dupont mean by what he had said? What had Dupont already learned—that was so interesting! It would not do to have Valérie here, if—if he and Dupont——

“Perhaps, Mademoiselle Valérie,” he said gravely, “it would be as well if you did not come in. Monsieur Dupont appears to be officially engaged.”

“But, of course!” she agreed readily. “I did not know that any one was here. I left the man alone when I ran out to find you. I will come back when Monsieur Dupont has gone.”

And Raymond smiled, and stepped inside the room, and closed the door, and leaned with his back against it.

“Well, Monsieur le Curé”—Monsieur Dupont tapped with his pencil on the notebook—“I have it all down here. All! Everything that he has said.”

Raymond had not even glanced toward the bed—his eyes, cool, steady now, were on the officer, watching the other like a hawk.

“Yes?” he prompted calmly.

“And”—Monsieur Dupont made that infernal clucking noise with his tongue—“I have—nothing! Did I not tell you it was interesting? Yes, very interesting! Very!”

Was the man playing with him? How clever was this Dupont? No fool, at any rate! He had already shown that, in spite of his absurd mannerisms. Raymond's hand began to toy with the crucifix on his breast, while his fingers surreptitiously loosened several buttons of his soutane.

“Nothing?”—Raymond's eyebrows were raised in mild surprise. “But Mademoiselle Valérie told me he had regained consciousness.”

“Yes,” said Monsieur Dupont, “I heard her say so to some one as she left the house. I was keeping an eye on that vieille sauvage, Mother Blondin. But this—ah! Quite a more significant matter! Yes—quite! You will understand, Monsieur le Curé, that I lost no time in reaching here?”

And now for the first time Raymond looked swiftly toward the bed. It was only for the barest fraction of a second that he permitted his eyes to leave the police officer; but in that glance he had met coal black eyes, all pupils they seemed, fixed in a sort of intense penetration upon him. The man was still lying on his back, he had noticed that—but it was the eyes, disconcerting, full of something he could not define, boring into him, that dominated all else. He stepped nonchalantly toward Monsieur Dupont.

“It is astonishing that he has said nothing,” he murmured softly. “Will you permit me, Monsieur Dupont”—he held out his hand—“to see your book?”

“The book? H'm! Well, why not?” Monsieur Dupont shrugged his shoulders as he placed the notebook in Raymond's hand. “It is not customary—but, why not!”

And then upon Raymond came relief. It surged upon him until he could have laughed out hysterically, laughed like a fool in this Monsieur Dupont's face—this Monsieur Dupont who was the assistant chief of the police force of Tournayville. It was true! Dupont had at least told the truth. So far Dupont had learned nothing. Raymond's face was impassive as he scrutinised the page before him. Written with a flourish on the upper line, presumably to serve as a caption, were the words:

“The Murderer, Henri Mentone,” and beneath: “Evades direct answers. Hardened type—knows his way about. Pretends ignorance. Stubborn. Wily rascal—yes, very!”

Raymond handed the notebook back to Monsieur Dupont.

“It is perhaps not so strange after all, Monsieur Dupont,” he remarked with a thoughtful air. “We must not forget that the poor fellow has but just recovered consciousness. He is hardly likely to be either lucid or rational.”

“Bah!” ejaculated Monsieur Dupont grimly. “He is as lucid as I am. But I am not through with him yet! He is not the first of his kind I have had upon my hook!” He leaned toward the bed. “Now, then, my little Apache, you will answer my questions! Do you understand? No more evasions! None at all! They will do you no good, and——”

Raymond's hand fell upon Monsieur Dupont's shoulder. Though he had not looked again until now, he was conscious that those eyes from the bed had never for an instant swerved from his face. Now he met them steadily. He addressed Monsieur Dupont, but he spoke to the man on the bed.

“Have you warned him, Monsieur Dupont,” he said soberly, “that anything he says will be used against him? And have you told him that he is not obliged to answer? He is weak yet and at a disadvantage. He would be quite justified in waiting until he was stronger, and entirely competent to weigh his own words.”

Monsieur Dupont was possessed of an inconsistency all his own.

“Tonnerre!” he snapped. “And what is the use of warning him when he will not answer at all?”

“You appear not quite to have given up hope!” observed Raymond dryly.

“H'm!” Monsieur Dupont scowled. “Very well, then”—he leaned once more over the bed, and addressed the man—“you understand? It is as Monsieur le Curé says. I warn you. You are not obliged to answer. Now then—your name, your age, your birthplace?”

Raymond shifted his position to the foot of the bed.

Damn those eyes! Move where he would, they never left his face. The man had paid no attention to Monsieur Dupont. Why, in God's name, why did the man keep on staring and gazing so fixedly at him—and why had the man refused to answer Dupont's questions—and why had not the man with his first words poured out his story eagerly!

“Well, well!” prodded Monsieur Dupont. “Did you not hear—eh? Your name?”

The man's eyes followed Raymond.

“Where am I?” he asked faintly.

It was too querulous, that tone, too genuinely weak and peevish to smack of trickery—and suddenly upon Raymond there came again that nervous impulse to laugh out aloud. So that was the secret of it, was it? There was a sort of sardonic humour then in the situation! The suggestion, the belief he had planned to convey to shield himself—that the man was still irrational—was, in fact, the truth! But how long would that condition last? He must put an end to this—get this cursed Dupont away!

“Where am I?” muttered the man again.

“Tiens!” clucked Monsieur Dupont. “You see, Monsieur le Curé! You see? Yes, you see. He plays the game well—with finesse, eh?” He turned to the man. “Where are you, eh? Well, you are better off where you are now than where you will be in a few days! I promise you that! Now, again—your name?”

The man shook his head.

“Monsieur Dupont,” said Raymond, a little severely. “You will arrive at nothing like this. The man is not himself. To-morrow he will be stronger.”

“Bah! Nonsense! Stronger!” jerked out Monsieur Dupont derisively. “Our fox is quite strong enough! Monsieur le Curé, you are not a police officer—do not let your pity deceive you. And permit me to continue!” He slipped his hand into his pocket, and adroitly flashed a visiting card suddenly before the man's eyes. “Well, since you cannot recall your name, this will perhaps be of assistance! You see, Monsieur Henri Mentone, that you get yourself nowhere by refusing to answer!” Once more the man shook his head.

“So!” Monsieur Dupont complacently returned the card to his pocket. “Now we will continue. You see now where you stand. Your age?”

Again the man shook his head.

“He does not know!” remarked Monsieur Dupont caustically. “Very convenient memory! Yes—very! Well, will you tell us where you came from?”

For the fourth time the man shook his head—and at that instant Raymond edged close to Monsieur Dupont's side. What was that in those eyes now—that something that was creeping into them—that dawning light, as they searched his face!

“He does not know that, either!” complained Monsieur Dupont sarcastically. “Magnificent! Yes—very! He knows nothing at all! He——”

With a low cry, the man struggled to his elbow, propping himself up in bed.

“Yes, I know!”—his voice, high-pitched, rang through the room. “I know now!” He raised his hand and pointed at Raymond. “I know you!”

Raymond's hand was thrust into the breast of his soutane, where he had unbuttoned it beneath the crucifix—and Raymond's fingers closed upon the stock of an automatic in his upper left-hand vest pocket.

“Poor fellow!” murmured Raymond pityingly. “You see, Monsieur Dupont”—he moved still a little closer—“you have gone too far. You have excited him. He is incoherent. He does not know what he is saying.”

Monsieur Dupont was clucking with his tongue, as he eyed the man speculatively.

“Yes, yes; I know you now!” cried the man again. “Oh, monsieur, monsieur!”—both hands were suddenly thrust out to Raymond, and there was a smile on the trembling lips, an eager flush dyeing the pale cheeks. “It is you, monsieur! I have been very sick, have I not? It—it was like a dream. I—I was trying to remember—your face. It is your face that I have seen so often bending over me. Was that not it, monsieur—monsieur, you who have been so good—was that not it? You would lift me upon my pillow, and give me something cool to drink. And was it not you, monsieur, who sat there in that chair for long, long hours? It seems as though I saw you there always—many, many times.”

It was like a shock, a revulsion so strong that for the moment it unnerved him. Raymond scarcely heard his own voice.

“Yes,” he said—his forehead was damp, as he brushed his hand across it.

Monsieur Dupont blew out his cheeks.

“Nom d'un nom!” he exploded. “Ah, your pardon, Monsieur le Curé! But it is mild, a very mild oath, is it not—under the circumstances? Yes—very! I admire cleverness—yes, I do! The man has a head! What an appeal to the emotions! Poignant! Yes, that's the word—poignant. Looking for sympathy! Trying to make an ally of you, Monsieur le Curé!”

“Get rid of the fool! Get rid of the fool!” prompted that inward monitor impatiently.

Raymond, with a significant look, plucked at Monsieur Dupont's sleeve, and led the other across the room away from the bed.

“Do you think so?” he asked, in a lowered voice.

“Eh?” inquired Monsieur blankly. “Think what?”

“What you just said—that he is trying to make an ally of me.”

“Oh, that—zut!” sniffed Monsieur Dupont. “But what else?”

“Then suppose”—Raymond dropped his voice still lower—“then suppose you leave him with me until tomorrow. And meanwhile—you understand?”

Monsieur Dupont pondered the suggestion.

“Well, very well—why not?” decided Monsieur Dupont. “Perhaps not a bad idea—perhaps not. And if it does not succeed”—Monsieur Dupont shrugged his shoulders—“well, we know everything anyhow; and I will make him pay through the nose for his tricks! But he is under arrest, Monsieur le Curé, you understand that? There is a cell in the jail at Tournayville that——”

“Naturally—when he is able to be moved,” agreed Raymond readily. “We will speak to the doctor about that. In the meantime he probably could not walk across this room. He is quite safe here. I will be responsible for him.”

“And I will put a flea in the doctor's ear!” announced Monsieur Dupont, moving toward the door. “The assizes are next week, and after the assizes, say, another six weeks and”—Monsieur Dupont's tongue clucked eloquently several times against the roof of his mouth. “We will not keep him waiting long!” Monsieur Dupont opened the door, and, standing on the threshold where he was hidden from the bed, laid his forefinger along the side of his nose. “You are wrong, Monsieur le Curé”—he had raised his voice to carry through the room. “But still you may be right! You are too softhearted; yes, that is it—soft-hearted. Well, he has you to thank for it. I would not otherwise consider it—it is against my best judgment. I bid you good-bye, Monsieur le Curé!”

Raymond closed the door—but it was a moment, standing there with his back to the bed, before he moved. His face was set, the square jaws clamped, a cynical smile flickering on his lips. It had been close—but of the two, as between Monsieur Dupont and himself and the gallows, Monsieur Dupont had been the nearer to death! He saw Monsieur Dupont in his mind's-eye sprawled on the floor. It would not have been difficult to have stopped forever any outcry from that weak thing upon the bed. And then the window; and after that—God knew! And it would have been God's affair! It was God Who had instituted that primal law that lay upon every human soul, the law of self-preservation; and it was God's choosing, not his, that he was here! Who was to quarrel with him if he stopped at nothing in his fight for life! Well, Dupont was gone now! That danger was past. He had only to reckon now with Valérie and her mother—until night came. He raised his hand heavily to his forehead and pushed back his hair. Valérie! Until night came! Fool! What was Valérie to him! And yet—he jeered at himself in a sort of grim derision—and yet, if it were not his one chance for life, he would not go to-night. He could call himself a fool, if he would; that ubiquitous and caustic other self, that was the cool, calculating, unemotional personification of Three-Ace Artie, could call him a fool, if it would—those dark eyes of Valérie's—no, not that—it was not eyes, nor hair, nor lips, they were only part of Valérie—it was Valérie, like some rare fragrance, fresh and pure and sweet in her young womanhood, that——

“Monsieur!”—the man was calling from the bed.

And then Raymond turned, and walked back across the room, and drew a chair to the bedside, and sat down. And Raymond smiled—but not at the bandaged, outstretched form before him. A fool! Well, so be it! The fool would sit here for the rest of the morning, and the rest of the afternoon, and listen to the babbling wanderings of another fool who had not had sense enough to die; and he would play this cursed rôle of saint, and fumble with his crucifix, and mumble his * Latin, and keep this Mademoiselle Valérie, who meant nothing to him, from the room—until to-night. And—what was this other fool saying?

“Monsieur—monsieur, who was that man who just went out?”

Raymond answered mechanically:

“It was Monsieur Dupont, the assistant chief of the Tournayville police.”

“What was he doing here?” asked the other slowly, as though trying to puzzle out the answer to his own question. “Why was he asking me all those questions?”

Raymond, tight-lipped, looked the man in the eyes.

“We've had enough of this, haven't we?” he challenged evenly. “I thought at first you were still irrational. You're not—that is now quite evident. Well—we are alone—what is your object? You had a chance to tell Dupont your story!”

A pitiful, stunned look crept into the man's face. He stretched out his hand over the coverlet toward Raymond. “You—you, too, monsieur!” he said numbly. “What does it mean? What does it mean?”

It startled Raymond. There was trickery here, it could be nothing else—and yet there was sincerity too genuine to be assumed in the other's words and acts. Raymond sat back in his chair, and for a long minute, brows knitted, studied the man. It was possible, of course, that the other might not have recognised him—they had only been together for a few moments in the smoking compartment of the train, and, dressed now as a priest, that might well be the case—but why not the story then?—why not the simple statement that he was the new curé coming to the village, that he had been struck down and—bah! What was the man's game! Well, he would force the issue, that was all! He leaned over the bed; and, his hand upon the other's, his fingers closed around the man's wrist until, beneath their tips, they could gauge the throb of the other's pulse. And his eyes, steel-hard, were on the other.

“I am the curé,” he said, in a low, level tone, “of St. Marleau—while Father Allard is away. My name is—François Aubert.”

“And mine,” said the man, “is”—he shook his head—“mine is”—his face grew piteously troubled—“it is strange—I do not remember that either.”

There had been no tell-tale nervous flutter of the man's pulse. Raymond's hand fell away from the other's wrist. What was this curious, almost uncanny presentiment that was creeping upon him! Was it possible that the man was telling the truth! Was it possible that—his own brain was whirling now—he steadied himself, forcing himself to speak.

“Did you not read the card that Dupont showed you?”

“Yes,” said the other. “Henri Mentone—is that my name?”

“Do you not know!”—Raymond's tone was suddenly sharp, incisive.

“No,” the other answered. “No, I cannot remember.” He reached out his arms imploringly to Raymond again. “Oh, monsieur, what does it mean? I do not know where I am—I do not know how I came here.”

“You are in the presbytère at St. Marleau,” said Raymond, still sharply. Was it true; or was the man simply magnificent in duplicity? No—there could be no reason, no valid reason for the man to play a part?—no reason why he should have withheld his story from Dupont. It was not logical. He, Raymond, who alone knew all the story, knew that. It must be true—but he dared not yet drop his guard. He must be sure—his life depended on his being sure. He was speaking again—uncompromisingly: “You were picked up unconscious on the road by the tavern during the storm three nights ago—you remember the storm, of course?”

Again that piteously troubled look was on the other's face.

“No, monsieur, I do not remember,” he said tremulously.

“Well, then,” persisted Raymond, “before the storm—you surely remember that! Where you came from? Where you lived? Your people?”

“Where I came from, my—my people”—the man repeated the words automatically. He swept his hand across his bandaged head. “It is gone,” he whispered miserably. “I—it is gone. There—there is nothing. I do not remember anything except a girl in this room saying she would run for the curé, and then that man came in.” A new trouble came into his eyes. “That man—you said he was a police officer—why was he here? And—you have not told me yet—why should he ask me questions?”

There was still a card to play. Raymond leaned again over the man.

“All this will not help you,” he said sternly. “Far better that you should confide in me! The proof against you is overwhelming. You are already condemned. You murdered Théophile Blondin that night, and stole Mother Blondin's money. Mother Blondin struck you that blow upon the head as you ran from the house. You were found on the road; and in your pockets was Mother Blondin's money—and her son's revolver, with which you shot him. In a word, you are under arrest for murder.”

“Murder!”—the man, wide-eyed, horror-stricken, was staring at Raymond—and then he was clawing himself frantically into an upright position in the bed. “No, no! Not that! It cannot be true! Not—murder!” His voice rose into a piercing cry, and rang, and rang again through the room. He reached out his arms. “You are a priest, monsieur—by that holy crucifix, by the dear Christ's love, tell me that it is not so! Tell me! Murder! It is not true! It cannot be true! No, no—no! Monsieur—father—do you not hear me crying to you, do you not—” His voice choked and was still. His face was buried in his hands, and great sobs shook his shoulders.

And Raymond turned his head away—and Raymond's face was gray and drawn. There was no longer room for doubt. That blow upon the skull had blotted out the man's memory, left it—a blank.

CHAPTER XII—HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER

FATHER ALLARD'S desk had been moved into the front room. Raymond, on a very thin piece of paper, was tracing the signature inscribed on the fly-leaf of the prayer-book—François Aubert. Before him lay a number of letters written that morning by Valérie—parish letters, a letter to the bishop—awaiting his signature. Valérie, who had been private secretary to her uncle, was now private secretary to—François Aubert!

The day before yesterday he had signed a letter in this manner, and Valérie, who was acquainted with the signature from her uncle's correspondence, had had no suspicions. Raymond placed his tracing over the bottom of one of the letters, and, bearing down heavily as he wrote, obtained an impression on the letter itself. The impression served as a guide, and he signed—François Aubert.

It was simple enough, this expedient in lieu of a piece of carbon paper that he had no opportunity to buy, and for which, from the notary perhaps, Valérie's other uncle, who alone in the village might be expected to have such a thing, he had not dared to make the request; but it was tedious and laborious—and besides, for the moment, his mind was not upon his task.

He signed another, and still another, his face deeply lined as he worked, wrinkles nesting in strained little puckers around the corners of his eyes—and suddenly, while there were yet two of the letters to be signed, he sat back in his chair, staring unseeingly before him. From the rear room came that footstep, slow, irregular, uncertain. It was Henri Mentone. Dupont's “flea” in the doctor's ear had had its effect. Henri Mentone was taking his exercise—from the bed to the window, from the window to the door, from the door to the bed, and over again. In the three days since the man had recovered consciousness, he had made rapid strides toward recovering his strength as well, though he still spent part of the day in bed—this afternoon, for instance, he was to be allowed out for a little while in the open air.

Raymond's eyes fixed on the open window where the morning sunlight streamed into the room. Yes, the man was getting on his feet rapidly enough to suit even Monsieur Dupont. The criminal assizes began at Tournayville the day after to-morrow. And the day after to-morrow Henri Mentone was to stand his trial for the murder of Théophile Blondin!

Raymond's fingers tightened upon the penholder until it cracked warningly, recalling him to himself. He had not gone that night. Gone! He laughed mockingly. The man had lost his memory! Who would have thought of that—and what it meant? If the man had died, or even if the man had talked and so forced him to accept pursuit as his one and only chance, the issue would have been clear cut. But the man, curse him, had not died; nor had he told his story—and to all appearances at least, except for still being naturally a little weak, was as well as any one. Gone! Gone—that night! Great God, they would hang the fool for this!

The sweat beads crept out on Raymond's forehead. No, no—not that! They thought the man was shamming now, but they would surely realise before it was too late that he was not. They would convict him of course, the evidence was damning, overwhelming, final—but they would not hang a man who could not remember. No, they wouldn't hang him. But what they would do was horrible enough—they would sentence the man for life, and keep him in the infirmary perhaps of some penitentiary. For life—that was all.

The square jaw was suddenly out-thrust. Well, what of it! He, Raymond, was safe as it was. It was his life, or the other's. In either case it would be an innocent man who suffered. As far as actual murder was concerned, he was no more guilty than this priest who had had nothing to do with it. Besides, they would hang him, Raymond, and they wouldn't hang the other. Of course, they didn't believe the man now! Why should they? They did not know what he, Raymond, knew; they had only the evidence before them that was conclusive enough to convict a saint from Heaven! Ha, ha! Why, even the man himself was beginning to believe in his own guilt! Sometimes the man was as a caged beast in an impotent fury; and—and sometimes he would cling like a frightened child with his arms around his, Raymond's, neck.

It was warm here in the room, warm with the bright, glorious sunlight of the summer morning. Why did he shiver like that? And this—why this? The smell of incense; those organ notes rising and swelling through the church; the voices of the choir; the bowed heads everywhere! He surged up from his chair, and, rocking on his feet, his hands clenched upon the edge of the desk. Before what dread tribunal was this that he was being called suddenly to account! Yesterday—yesterday had been Sunday—and yesterday he had celebrated mass. His own voice seemed to sound again in his ears: “Introibo ad altare Dei—I will go in unto the Altar of God.... Ab homme iniquo et dolosoerue me—Deliver me from the unjust and deceitful man.... In quorum manibus iniquitates sunt—In whose hands are iniquities.... Hic est enim Calix sanguinis mei novi et æterni testamenti: mysterium fidei—For this is the Chalice of My Blood of the new and eternal testament: the mystery of faith....” No—no, no! He had not profaned those holy things, those holy vessels. He had not done it! It was a lie! He had fooled even Gauthier Beaulieu, the altar boy.

He sank back into his chair like a man exhausted, and drew his hand across his eyes. It was nothing! He was quite calm again. Those words, the church, those holy things had nothing to do with Henri Mentone. If any one should think otherwise, that one was a fool! Had Three-Ace Artie ever been swayed by “mystery of faith”—or been called a coward! Yes, that was it—a coward! It was true that he had as much right to life as that pitiful thing in the back room, but it was he who had put that other's life in jeopardy! That creed—that creed of his, born of the far Northland where men were men, fearing neither God nor devil, nor man, nor beast—it was better than those trembling words which had just been upon his lips. True, he was safe now, if he let them dispose of this Henri Mentone—but to desert the other would be a coward's act. Well, what then—what then! Confess—and with meek, uplifted eyes, like some saintly martyr, stand upon the gibbet and fasten the noose around his own neck? No! Well then, what—what? The tormented look was back in Raymond's eyes. There was a way, a way by which he could give the man a chance, a way by which they both might have their chance, only the difficulties so far had seemed insurmountable—a problem that he had not yet been able to solve—and the time was short. Yes, the way was there, if only——.

With a swift movement, incredibly swift, alert in an instant, his hand swept toward the desk. Some one was knocking at the door. His fingers closed on the thin piece of paper that had served him in tracing the signature of Francois Aubert, and crushed it into a little ball in the palm of his hand. The door opened. There were dark eyes there, dark hair, a slim figure, a sweet, quiet smile, a calm, an untroubled peace, a pervading radiance. It was unreal. It could not exist. There was only a ghastly turmoil, agony, dismay and strife everywhere—his soul told him so! This was Valérie. God, how tired he was, how weary! Once he had seen those arms supporting that wounded man's head so tenderly—like a soothing caress. If he might, just for a moment, know that too, it would bring him—rest.

She came lightly across the room and stood before the desk.

“It is for the letters, Monsieur le Curé,” she smiled. “I am going down to the post-office.” She picked up the little pile of correspondence; and, very prettily business-like, began to run through it.

Impulsively Raymond reached out to take the letters from her—and, instead, his hand slipped inside his soutane, and dropped the crushed ball of paper into one of his pockets. It was too late, of course! She would already have noticed the omission of the two signatures.

“There are two there that I have not yet signed,” observed Raymond casually.

“Yes; so I see!” she answered brightly. “I was just going to tell you how terribly careless you were, Monsieur le Curé! Well, you can sign them now, while I am putting the others in their envelopes. Here they are.”

He took the two letters from her hand—and laid them deliberately aside upon the desk.

“It was not carelessness,” he said laughingly; “except that I should not have allowed them to get mixed up with the others. There are some changes that I think I should like to make before they go. They are not important—to-morrow will do.”

“Of course!” she said. Then, in pretended consternation: “I hope the mistakes weren't mine!”

“No—not yours”—he spoke abstractedly now. He was watching her as she folded the letters and sealed the envelopes. How quickly she worked! In a minute now she would go and leave him alone again to listen to those footfalls from the other room. He wanted rest for his stumbling brain; and, yes—he wanted her. He could have reached out and caught her hands, and drawn that dark head bending over the desk closer to him, and held her there—a prisoner. He brushed his hands hurriedly over his forehead. A prisoner! What did he mean by that? Oh, yes, the thought was born of the idea that he was already a jailor. He had been a jailor for three days now—of that man there, who was too weak to get away. He had appointed himself jailor—and Monsieur Dupont had confirmed the appointment. What had that to do with Valérie? He only wanted her to stay because—a fool, was he!—because he wanted to torture himself a little more. Well, it was exquisite torture then, her presence, her voice, her smile! Love? Well, what if he loved! Days and days their lives had been spent together now. How long was it? A week—no, it must be more than a week—it seemed as though it had been as long as he could remember. Yes, he loved her! He knew that now—scoff, sneer and gibe if that inner voice would! He loved her! He loved Valérie! Madness? Well, what of that, too! Did he dispute it! Yes, it was madness—and in more ways than one! He was fighting for his life in this devil's masquerade, and he might win; but he could not fight for or win his love. That was just dangled before his eyes as the final Satanic touch to this hell-born conspiracy that engulfed him! He was in the garb of a priest! How those hell demons must shake their very souls out with laughter in their damnable glee! He could not even touch her; he could say no word, his tongue was tied; nor look at her—he was in the garb of a priest! He—what was this! A fire seemed in his veins. Her hand in his! Across the desk, her hand had crept softly into his!

“Monsieur—Monsieur le Curé—you are ill!” she cried anxiously.

And then Raymond found himself upon his feet, his other hand laid over hers—and he forced a smile.

“I—no”—Raymond shook his head—“no, Mademoiselle Valérie, I am not ill.”

“You are worn out, then!” she insisted tremulously. “And it is our fault. We should have made you let us help you more. You have been up night after night with that man, and in the daytime there was the parish work, and you have never had any rest. And yesterday in the church you looked so tired—and—and——”

The dark eyes were misty; the sweet face was very close to his. If he might bend a little, just a very little, that glad wealth of hair would brush his cheek.

“A little tired, perhaps—yes—mademoiselle,” he said, in a low voice. “But it is nothing!” He released her hand, and, turning abruptly from the desk, walked to the window.

She had followed him with her eyes, turned to look after him—he sensed that. There was silence in the room. He did not speak. He did not dare to speak until—ah!—this should bring him to his senses quickly enough!

He was staring out through the window. A buck-board had turned in from the road, and was coming across the green toward the presbytère. Dupont and Doctor Arnaud! They were coming for Henri Mentone now—now! He had let the time slip by until it was too late—because he had not been able to fight his way through the odds against him! And then there came a wan smile to Raymond's lips. No! His fears were groundless. Three-Ace Artie would have seen that at once! The buckboard was single-seated, there was room only for two—and Monsieur Dupont could be well trusted to look after his own comfort when he took the man away.

He drew back from the window, and faced around—and the thrill that had come from the touch of her hand was back again, as he caught her gaze upon him. What was it that was in those eyes, that was in her face? She had been looking at him like that, he knew, all the time that he had been standing at the window. They were still misty, those eyes—she could not hide that, though she lowered them hurriedly now. And that faint flush tinging her cheeks! Did it mean that she—Fool! He knew what it meant! It meant that if he cared to seek for any added self-torture with his madman's imaginings, he could find it readily to hand. She—to have any thought but that prompted by her woman's sympathy, her tender anxiety for another's trouble! She—who thought him a priest, and, pure in her faith as in her soul, would have recoiled in horror from——

He steadied his voice.

“Monsieur Dupont and the doctor have just arrived,” he said.

She looked up, her face serious now.

“They have come for Henri Mentone?”

“No, not yet, I imagine,” he answered; “since they have only a one-seated buckboard.”

“I will be glad when he has gone!” she exclaimed impulsively.

“Glad?”

“Yes—for your sake,” she said. “He has brought you to the verge of illness yourself.” She was looking down again, shuffling the sealed envelopes abstractedly. “And it is not only I who say so—it is all St. Marleau. St. Marleau loves you for it, for your care of him, Monsieur le Curé—but also St. Marlbau thinks more of its curé than it does of one who has taken another's life.”

Raymond did not reply—he was listening now to the footsteps of Monsieur Dupont and the doctor, as they passed by along the hallway outside. Came then a sharp, angry voice raised querulously from the rear room—that was Henri Mentone. Monsieur Dupont's voice snapped in reply; and then the voices merged into a confused buzz and murmur. He glanced quickly at Valérie. She, too, was listening. Her head was turned toward the door, he could not see her face.

He walked slowly across the room to her side by the desk.

“You do not think, mademoiselle,” he asked gravely, “that it is possible the man is telling the truth, that he really cannot remember anything that happened that night—and before?”

She shook her head.

“Every one knows he is guilty,” she said thoughtfully. “The evidence proves it absolutely. Why, then, should one believe him? If there was even a little doubt of his guilt, no matter how little, it might be different, and one might wonder then; but as it is—no.”

“And it is not only you who say so”—he smiled, using her own words—“it is all St. Marleau?”

“Yes, all St. Marleau—and every one else, including Monsieur le Curé, even if he has sacrificed himself for the man,” she smiled in return. Her brows puckered suddenly. “Sometimes I am afraid of him,” she said nervously. “Yesterday I ran from the room. He was in a fury.”

Raymond's face grew grave.

“Ah! You did not tell me that, mademoiselle,” he said soberly.

“And I am sorry I have told you now, if it is going to worry you,” she said quickly. “You must not say anything to him. The next time I went in he was so sorry that it was pitiful.”

In a fury—at times! Was it strange! Was it strange if one did not sit unmoved to watch, fettered, bound, impotent, a horrible doom creeping inexorably upon one! Was it strange if at times, all recollection blotted out, conscious only that one was powerless to avert that creeping terror, one should experience a paroxysm of fury that rocked one to the very soul—and at times in anguish left one like a helpless child! He had seen the man like that—many times in the last few days. And he, too, had seen that same terror creep like a dread thing out of the night upon himself to hover over him; and he could see it now lurking there, ever present—but he, Raymond, could fight!

The door of the rear room opened and closed; and Monsieur Dupont's voice resounded from the hall.

“Where is Monsieur le Curé? Ho, Monsieur le Curé!”

Valérie looked toward him inquiringly.

“Shall I tell them you are here?” she asked.

Raymond nodded mechanically.

“Yes—if you will, please.”

He leaned against the desk, his hands gripping its edge behind his back. What was it now that this Monsieur Dupont wanted? He was never sure of Dupont. And this morning his brain was fagged, and he did not want to cope with this infernal Monsieur Dupont! He watched Valérie walk across the room, and disappear outside in the hall.

“Monsieur le Curé is here,” he heard her say. “Will you walk in?” And then, at some remark in the doctor's voice which he did not catch: “No; he is not busy. I was just going to take his letters to the postoffice. He heard Monsieur Dupont call.”

And then, as the two men stepped in through the doorway, Raymond spoke quietly:

“Good morning, Monsieur Dupont! Good morning, Doctor Arnaud!”

“Hah! Monsieur le Curé!” Monsieur Dupont wagged his head vigorously. “He is in a very pretty temper this morning, our friend in there—eh? Yes, very pretty! You have noticed it? Yes, you have noticed it. It would seem that he is beginning to realise at last that his little tricks are going to do him no good!”

Raymond waved his hand toward chairs.

“You will sit down?” he invited courteously.

“No”—Doctor Arnaud smiled, as he answered for them both. “No, not this morning, Monsieur le Curé. We are returning at once to Tournayville. I have an important case there, and Monsieur Dupont has promised to have me back before noon.”

“Yes,” said Monsieur Dupont, “we stopped only to tell you”—Monsieur Dupont jerked his hand in the direction of the rear room—“that we will take him away to-morrow morning. Doctor Arnaud says he will be quite able to go. We will see what the taste of a day in jail will do for him before he goes into the dock—what? He is very fortunate! Yes, very! There are not many who have only one day in jail before they are tried! Yes! To-morrow morning! You look surprised, Monsieur le Curé, that it should be so soon. Yes, you look surprised!”

“On the contrary,” observed Raymond impassively, “when I saw you drive up a few minutes ago, I thought you had come to take him away at once.”

“But, not at all!” Monsieur Dupont indulged in a significant smile. “No—not at all! I take not even that chance of cheating the court out of his appearance—I do not wish to house him for months until the next assizes. I take no chances on a relapse. He has been quite safe here. Yes—quite! He will be quite safe for another twenty-four hours in your excellent keeping, Monsieur le Curé—since he is still too weak to run far enough to have it do him any good!”

“You pay a high compliment to my vigilance, Monsieur Dupont,” said Raymond, with a faint smile.

“Hah!” cried Monsieur Dupont. “Hah!”—he began to chuckle. “Do you hear that, Monsieur le Docteur Arnaud? I thought it had escaped him! He has a sense of humour, our estimable curé! You see, do you not? Yes, you see. Well, we will go now!” He pushed the doctor from the room. “Au revoir Monsieur le Curé! It is understood then? To-morrow morning! Au revoir—till to-morrow!”

Monsieur Dupont bowed, and whisked himself out of sight. Raymond went to the door, closed it, and mechanically began to pace up and down the room. He heard Monsieur Dupont and the doctor clamber into the buckboard, and heard the buckboard drive off. There was moisture upon his forehead again. He swept it away. To-morrow morning! He had until to-morrow morning in which to act—if he was to act at all. But the way! He could not see the way. It was full of peril. The risk was too great to be overcome! He dared not even approach that man in there with any plan. There was something horribly sardonic in that! If he was to act, he must act now, at once—there was only the afternoon and the night left.

“You are safe as it is,” whispered that inner voice insidiously. “The man's condemnation by the law will dispose of the killing of Théophile Blondin forever. It will be as a closed book. And then—have you forgotten?—there is your own plan for getting away after a little while. It cannot fail, that plan. Besides, they will not sentence the man to hang, they will be sure to see that his memory is really gone; whereas they will surely hang you if you are caught—as you will be, if you are fool enough to attempt the impossible now. What did you ever get out of being quixotic? Do you remember that little affair in Ton-Nugget Camp?”

“My God, what shall I do?” Raymond cried out aloud. “If—if only I could see the way!”

“But you can't!” sneered the voice viciously. “Haven't you tried hard enough to satisfy even that remarkably tender conscience that you seem to have picked up somewhere so suddenly! You—who were going to kill the man with your own hands! Let well enough alone!”

It was silent now in the rear room. Raymond halted in the centre of the floor and listened. There were no footsteps; no sound of voice—only silence. He laughed a little harshly. What was the man doing? Planning his own escape! Again Raymond laughed in bitter mirth. God speed to the man in any such plans—only the man, as Monsieur Dupont had most sagaciously suggested, would not get very far alone. But still it would be humorous, would it not, if the man should succeed alone, where he, Raymond, had utterly failed so far to work out any plan that would accomplish the same end! There was the open window to begin with, the man had been told now probably that he was to be taken away to-morrow morning, and—why was there such absolute stillness from that other room? The partitions were very thin, and—Raymond, as mechanically as he had set to pacing up and down the room, turned to the door, passed out into the hall, and walked softly along to the door of the rear room. He listened there again. There was still silence. He opened the door, stepped across the threshold—and a strange white look crept into his face, and he stood still.

Upon the floor at the bedside knelt Henri Mentone, and at the opening of the door the man did not look up. There was no fury now; it was the child, helpless in despair and grief. His hands were outflung across the coverlet, his head was buried in his arms—and there was no movement, save only a convulsive tremor that shook the thin shoulders. And there was no sound.

And the whiteness deepened in Raymond's face—and, as he looked, suddenly the scene was blurred before his eyes.

And then Raymond stepped back into the hall, and closed the door again, and on Raymond's lips was a queer, twisted smile.

“To-morrow morning, I think you said, Monsieur Dupont,” he whispered. “Well, to-morrow morning, Monsieur Dupont—he will be gone.”