indeed, your man Tardif left him behind in the dust. Perhaps you came upon him, Madame—hein?"
She steeled herself. Too much was at stake; she could not resent his hateful implications now.
"Tardif was not my messenger, Monsieur, as you know. Tardif was the thief of that document in your hands."
"Yes, this—will!" he said musingly, an evil glitter in his eyes. "Its delivery has been long delayed. Posts and messengers are slow from Pontiac."
"Monsieur will hear what I have to say? You have the will, your rights are in your hands. Is not that enough?"
"It is not enough," he answered, in a grating voice. "Let us be plain then, Madame, and as simple as you please. You concealed this will. Not Tardif but yourself is open to the law."
She shrank under the brutality of his manner, but she ruled herself to outward composure. She was about to reply when he added, with a sneer: "Avarice is a debasing vice—Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house! Thou shalt not steal!"
"Monsieur," she said calmly, "it would have been easy to destroy the will. Have you not thought of that?"
For a moment he was taken aback, but he said harshly: "If crime were always intelligent, it would have fewer penalties."
She shrank again under the roughness of his words. But she was fighting for an end that was dear to her soul, and she answered:
"It was not lack of intelligence, but a sense of honour—yes, a sense of honour," she insisted, as he threw back his head and laughed. "What do you think
