” “It’s so strange to think of you—troubled by such things. I must go perhaps in all the rooms. There is nobody, then?" "Oh, there is an aunt. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. He understood. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. ’ Even as they watched, a shadow passed across one of the apertures. He was so seldom wrong. "Your business, Sir?" returned the other, stiffly. ” He stared at her incredulously, and she laughed very softly.
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