horror; no one who had not seen and heard her as I did could ever understand how dreadful, how real that vision was to me as well as to the sleeper. I used to feel as if I had seen murder done, and had stood by without the power to prevent it."
"In a word, you felt, by pure sympathy, almost exactly what the child felt," said Heathcote.
Already he had begun to adore Sister Gudule, just as the children of the convent adored her. He forgot her hump, he forgave her the potato-shaped nose, he accepted her beard as a detail that gave piquancy to her countenance. He was subdued, subjugated by that intensely sympathetic nature which revealed itself in every word and look of the lay-sister.
But he had a task to perform, and it was necessary that he should proceed with his inquiries in a business-like manner. He had already taken certain notes in his pocket-book.
"Léonie Lemarque left you in 1879, and she had been with you eight years," he said, with pencil in hand. "She must have come to you in 1871."
"Yes, it was in 1871, not long after the troubles in Paris. It was early in November she was brought to us."
"And you were told that she had been ill two months in consequence of a mental shock?"
"Yes."
"Then one may fairly conclude that the event which caused her illness occurred early in the September of 1871."
"I think so."
"Good. I thank you most heartily, Madame," with a courteous bow to the Reverend Mother, "for the help you and Sister Gudule have so graciously bestowed upon me. But I would venture to ask one more favour, namely, that you would honour me with a line by way of introduction to the worthy priest who brought Léonie Lemarque from Paris."
"Alas, Monsieur, that is impossible! Father Sorbier died three years ago, just a year before Léonie left us."
"That is unfortunate. He doubtless knew the mystery of the girl's childhood, and perhaps might have helped me to unravel the secret of her strange death."
"Do you really believe that the two events have any bearing upon each other, Monsieur?" demanded Sister Gudule thoughtfully.
"I know not, Madame," replied Heathcote; "but it is only by working backwards that I can hope to arrive at any clue to the mystery which has puzzled us all in Cornwall. That poor girl must have had some purpose in going to England, in travelling to so remote a neighbourhood as ours. Even if her death were an accident, or an unpremeditated crime, her presence in that place cannot have been accidental."
Mr. Heathcote asked to see the class-rooms and the chapel
