"Father, you know that I love Miss Atheson?"

"Yes."

"You approve?"

"Decidedly."

"But I am not of her faith."

"You are. Lax you may be in practice, but you are too good to stay long satisfied with present conditions. I am frank, my dear Mark."

"And you would trust me?"

"Absolutely."

"At first, I could not quite see why I fell in love with her so soon, after having escaped the pleasant infliction for so long a time. Now I think I know. Do you remember ever having met me before?"

"I have no such recollection."

"Did you know some people named Meechamp?"

"I knew a family of that name in London. They were parishioners of mine during my short pastorate there, before I became a Catholic."

"Then you did meet me before. I was present at your farewell sermon.

I was visiting the Meechamps at the time. That sermon made a lifelong impression on me. After hearing it I was worried about my own state of mind, for I had given up the practice of the very religion you were sacrificing your prospects to embrace. I went in to your study to see you that morning."

"Ah, now I remember," exclaimed the priest. "So it was you who came to see me?"

"Yes; and I have never forgotten your last words to me: 'Remember this: the door we are pa.s.sing through this morning, going in opposite directions, is never locked.' But let that pa.s.s. I want to come quickly to something else. That morning a little girl sat all alone in a pew near your study door. She spoke to me as I came out: 'Is he crying?' she asked. I answered, 'I'm afraid, my dear, that he is.'

She bristled at once: 'Did you make him cry?' I had to smile at her tone of proprietorship in you. 'No, my dear,' I said, 'I never make good people cry.' That made us friends. 'Do you love him?' I asked.

'I do. I like you, too, because you think he is good. Those others only worried him.' Father, I haven't quoted her exact words, of course, but the substance. I kissed her. The last I saw of your church in London included that little girl. I looked back from the door as I was going out; she was kneeling on the pew seat waving her hand after me. I never forgot the face--nor the kiss. Now I know I have met her again--a woman. Quite by accident I saw, at Killimaga, a picture of you and that little girl taken years ago in London together.

Both have changed; it was only last night that memory proved true and the faces in the picture identified themselves. Do you understand now?"

"I do," said Father Murray. "It is a remarkable story. I wonder if Ruth remembers you. She told me all about the 'nice young gentleman'

when I came out of the study to take her home."

"Then you knew her family well?"

"Her mother was my sister."

"Your sister!"

"Exactly. You are surprised?"

Mark was dumfounded rather than merely surprised.

"I do not, then, understand some other things," he stammered.

"Please be explicit."

"Father, I have already told you of the detective. You yourself figured out, correctly, as it proves, a connection between his activities and the well-dressed men in the labor camp. You yourself saw the diplomat who was here. I now know why they are watching Miss Atheson. They take her for a runaway grand d.u.c.h.ess. They are confident she is the one they have been instructed to watch. Several things have happened within the last forty-eight hours. I am convinced Miss Atheson is in danger; and I don't understand some things I have myself seen, if she is really your niece."

"Will you just continue to trust me, my dear Mark?" asked Father Murray anxiously.

"Certainly, Father."

"Then do not question me on this point. Only wait."

The men walked on in silence, both thoughtful, for five minutes. Then all at once Mark thought of the charge the Bishop had put upon him.

Here was his chance.

"Father, one good has come out of this talk. Listen!" Mark related the incident of his ride with the Bishop, and all that had pa.s.sed.

"You see, Father," he said when the story was finished, "your reputation will be cleared now."

Father Murray could not conceal his gratification; but he soon became grave again.

"You are right," he said, "and I am deeply grateful to you. I knew there was some unfortunate misunderstanding, but I never thought of that. My old Bishop knew all the circ.u.mstances, and instructed me to keep silence so far as others were concerned. But I thought that--"

Father Murray seemed puzzled. His mind had reverted to the seminary days in Rome. Then his brow cleared, as though he had come to some decision, and he spoke slowly. "For the present it is best that no explanation be attempted. Will your trust stand the strain of such a test, Mark?"

Mark's answer was to put out his hand. Father Murray's eyes were wet as he took it.

Before Mark had noticed, they had arrived at the place of the tragedy.

Mark stopped and related the story of the shooting. Father Murray stood as though petrified while he listened. His face showed the deepest agitation. It was some minutes before he could speak.

"You are in New England, Mark. Those things are not done here."

"Father Murray, do you see the powder marks on my hand? Yes? I got them trying to throw up the gun that killed the young officer."

Father Murray's reply was cut short. Before he could utter two words, the tree was suddenly thrown open. Madame Neuville sprang out of it, screaming. Her hair was disheveled, her dress torn, and blood was trickling down her cheek from a small wound--evidently the result of a blow.

"_Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Miss Ruth is gone. They have taken her away in a great car. _Mon Dieu_, Father!

Come--come at once!"

The priest stepped into the tree, and Mark followed closely. As he had surmised, the tree was a secret entrance into the grounds of Killimaga.

Madame Neuville pointed to the main entrance of the estate and to the road showing beyond the open gates, "The North Road," Siha.s.set called it.

"That way!" she cried. "They went that way. There were two of them.

They were hiding by the wall and seized her just as we were going out.

I was behind Miss Ruth and they did not see me at first. I tried to fight them, but one of them struck me and they went off like the wind.

_Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_! Let me die!"

"Stop, please." The sternness of Mark's voice effectually silenced the weeping woman. "What were those men like?"

"Big, so big. One had bushy eyebrows that frown always. He was dark and short, but he was very large of the shoulders."

Mark turned to Father Murray.

"It is useless to follow in a car, Father. The man she describes is the murderer. I saw the car early this morning; it is a seventy horsepower, and nothing but a racing car could catch it now. The lady is safe, in any event. They will carry her to Washington. When they find she is not the Grand d.u.c.h.ess, they will let her go. Will you come to Washington with me?"