every chance that the Sister still lived: and he must be dull if he failed to find her.
He stopped at the first church to which he came after leaving the boat—an old church in the lower part of the town. Here he asked his way to the presbytery, and called upon the priest, who told him that there was only one educational convent in Dinan, the Convent of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, an Ursuline convent situated in a quiet quarter of the town.
Mr. Heathcote left his portmanteau at one of the hotels in the market-place, and drove at once to the convent. It was a large white building, with plastered walls, far from beautiful in itself, and showing every sign of poverty; but the gardens were neatly kept, the rooms were exquisitely clean, and the clumsy old Breton furniture was polished to the highest degree.
Mr. Heathcote was received in the convent parlour by the Reverend Mother, a homely little tub-shaped personage, in a black serge habit and a picturesque white cap, which concealed every vestige of hair upon her broad intelligent forehead. She had kindly black eyes, and a frank benevolent smile, and Heathcote felt at once at his ease with her. She looked a little disappointed when, in answer to her preliminary question, he told her that he had not come to offer a new pupil. The pupils were the chief source of revenue for the convent, albeit the pension was of the smallest.
"Have you ever seen that locket before, madame?" he asked, laying the silver medallion before the Reverend Mother.
"I have seen many such," she answered. "The Holy Father allows us to dispose of them for the benefit of the convent."
"There is a little paper inside with some writing. Will you look at it, please?"
She opened the locket and unfolded the paper.
"Yes, this is Sister Gudule's writing. I know it very well indeed," said the nun, looking at her visitor with a puzzled air, as if wondering whether the gentleman had not gone a little astray, his real destination being the great monastic madhouse yonder on the crest of a wooded hill.
"Sister Gudule is still living—still with you, perhaps?"
"Yes?" interrogatively.
"And you remember Léonie, to whom that little picture was given?"
The Reverend Mother smiled her modest smile.
"Léonie is not an uncommon name," she replied. "We have had many pupils so called from time to time. Our school numbers over a hundred and fifty pupils, you must remember."
"Do you recall any pupil of that name who left you two years ago?" asked Heathcote.
"We have from thirty to forty pupils leaving us every year. Will you permit me to ask the object of your inquiry?"
