ows, and Paul had seen nothing save
his outline since they had entered the room. But now, his curiosity
stirred by the sudden silence of the priest, he caught up the poker,
and broke the burning log in the grate, so that the flames threw a
quick light on his face.

Its extreme pallor struck him forcibly. It was a perfectly bloodless
face, and the dark eyes, as black as jet, accentuated its pallor. Yet
there was no lack of nervous strength or emotion. The thin lips were
quivering, and the eyes were soft with feeling. Somehow, it seemed to
Paul that this man's interest in the story which he had come to tell
was no casual one; that he himself was mixed up in it, in a manner
which as yet he had chosen to conceal. His colourless face was alight
with human interest and sympathies. Who was this priest, and why had
he come so far to tell his story? Paul felt that a mystery lay behind
it all.

"You must not think," Father Adrian commenced slowly, "that your
father told me the whole history of his life. It was one episode only,
the memory of which weighed heavily upon him as death drew near. He
did not tell me all concerning it; what he did tell me I will try and
repeat to you.

"It was late in the afternoon of the day before your arrival that he
called me to his bedside. Only a few hours ago we had told him that
he must die, and since then he had been very silent. I came and knelt
before him, and was commencing a prayer, when he stopped me.

"'I want you to listen while I tell you one of the worst actions of my
life,' he said in a low tone, weakened by the suffering through which
he had passed. 'The memory of it has haunted me always; it is the
memory of it which has brought me here. I am not confessing to you,
mind! only after I have told you this story, I want you to pray for
me.

"'Thirty years ago I was in Palermo, and was introduced there to the
Count of Cruta. We met several times, and on his departure he invited
me to come over here for a week's shooting. I was wandering about on
pleasure, with no fixed plans, and I did not hesitate for a moment. I
should like nothing better than to come, I told him, and accordingly
we returned here together.

"'The Count was a widower with one daughter, Irene. For a young man
I was not particularly impressionable, and up till then I had thought
very little about women. Nevertheless,--perhaps, I should say, all the
more for that reason,--I fell in love with Irene. In a week's time