ep the child you make enemies--very
powerful enemies. It is long since I lived in the world, but I think
that the times have not changed very much. Of the child's parentage I
may not tell you, but as I hope for salvation I will tell you this. It
will be better for you, and better for the child, that she comes back
here, even to embrace what you have called the living death."

"Madame," I said, "I will consider all these things."

"It will be well for you to do so, Monsieur," she said with meaning. "An
enemy of those in whose name I have spoken must needs be a holy man, for
he lives hand in hand with death."

CHAPTER X

So I was driven back to Argueil, the red-tiled, sleepy old town, with
its great gaunt church, whose windows, as the lumbering cart descended
the hill, were stained blood-red by the dying sunset. Behind, on the
hillside, was the convent, with its avenue of stunted elms, its
close-barred windows, its terrible prison-like silence. As I looked
behind, holding on to the sides of the springless cart to avoid being
jostled into the road, I found myself shivering. The convent
boarding-schools which I had heard of had been very different sort of
places. Even after my brief visit there this return into the fresh
country air, the smell of the fields, the colour and life of the rolling
landscape, were blessed things. I was more than ever satisfied with my
decision. It was not possible to send the child back to such a place.

Across a great vineyard plain, through which the narrow white road ran
like a tightly drawn band of ribbon, I came presently to the village of
Argueil. The street which led to the inn was paved with the most
abominable cobbles, and I was forced to hold my hat with one hand and
the side of the cart with the other. My blue-smocked driver pulled up
with a flourish in front of the ancient gateway of the _Leon d'Or_, and
I was very nearly precipitated on to the top of the broad-backed horse.
As I gathered myself together I was conscious of a soft peal of
laughter--a woman's laughter, which came from the arched entrance to the
inn. I looked up quickly. A too familiar figure was standing there
watching me,--Lady Delahaye, trim, elegant, a trifle supercilious. By
her side stood the innkeeper, white-aproned and obsequious.

I clambered down on to the pavement, and Lady Delahaye advanced a little
way to meet me. She held out a delicately gloved hand, and smiled.

"You must forgive my laughin