"Please be explicit."
"Father, I have already told you of the detective. You yourself figured out, correctly, as it proves, a connection between his activities and the well-dressed men in the labor camp. You yourself saw the diplomat who was here. I now know why they are watching Miss Atheson. They take her for a runaway grand duchess. They are confident she is the one they have been instructed to watch. Several things have happened within the last forty-eight hours. I am convinced Miss Atheson is in danger; and I don't understand some things I have myself seen, if she is really your niece."
"Will you just continue to trust me, my dear Mark?" asked Father Murray anxiously.
"Certainly, Father."
"Then do not question me on this point. Only wait."
The men walked on in silence, both thoughtful, for five minutes. Then all at once Mark thought of the charge the Bishop had put upon him. Here was his chance.
"Father, one good has come out of this talk. Listen!" Mark related the incident of his ride with the Bishop, and all that had passed. "You see, Father," he said when the story was finished, "your reputation will be cleared now."
Father Murray could not conceal his gratification; but he soon became grave again.
"You are right," he said, "and I am deeply grateful to you. I knew there was some unfortunate misunderstanding, but I never thought of that. My old Bishop knew all the circumstances, and instructed me to keep silence so far as others were concerned. But I thought that--" Father Murray seemed puzzled. His mind had reverted to the seminary days in Rome. Then his brow cleared, as though he had come to some decision, and he spoke slowly. "For the present it is best that no explanation be attempted. Will your trust stand the strain of such a test, Mark?"
Mark's answer was to put out his hand. Father Murray's eyes were wet as he took it.
Before Mark had noticed, they had arrived at the place of the tragedy. Mark stopped and related the story of the shooting. Father Murray stood as though petrified while he listened. His face showed the deepest agitation. It was some minutes before he could speak.
"You are in New England, Mark. Those things are not done here."
"Father Murray, do you see the powder marks on my hand? Yes? I got them trying to throw up the gun that killed the young officer."
Father Murray's reply was cut short. Before he could utter two words, the tree was suddenly thrown open. Madame Neuville sprang out of it, screaming. Her hair was disheveled, her dress torn, and blood was trickling down her cheek from a small wound--evidently the result of a blow.