At the school-gate the lamps of a carriage suddenly

blurred in the mist. Carriages were not common in this

region, and I was not surprised to find that this was the

familiar village hack that met trains day and night at

Glenarm station. Some parent, I conjectured, paying a

visit to St. Agatha's; perhaps the father of Miss Olivia

Gladys Armstrong had come to carry her home for a

stricter discipline than Sister Theresa's school afforded.

The driver sat asleep on his box, and I passed him

and went on into the grounds. A whim seized me to

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visit the crypt of the chapel and examine the opening

to the tunnel. As I passed the little group of school-buildings

a man came hurriedly from one of them and

turned toward the chapel.

I first thought it was Stoddard, but I could not make

him out in the mist and I waited for him to put twenty

paces between us before I followed along the path that

led from the school to the chapel.

He strode into the chapel porch with an air of assurance,

and I heard him address some one who had been

waiting. The mist was now so heavy that I could not

see my hand before my face, and I stole forward until

I could hear the voices of the two men distinctly.

"Bates!"

"Yes, sir."

I heard feet scraping on the stone floor of the porch.

"This is a devil of a place to talk in but it's the best

we can do. Did the young man know I sent for you?"

"No, sir. He was quite busy with his books and papers."

"Humph! We can never be sure of him."

"I suppose that is correct, sir."

"Well, you and Morgan are a fine pair, I must say!

I thought he had some sense, and that you'd see to it

that he didn't make a mess of this thing. He's in bed

now with a hole in his arm and you've got to go on

alone."

"I'll do my best, Mr. Pickering."

"Don't call me by name, you idiot. We're not advertising

our business from the housetops."

"Certainly not," replied Bates humbly.

The blood was roaring through my head, and my

hands were clenched as I stood there listening to this

colloquy.

Pickering's voice was-and is-unmistakable. There

was always a purring softness in it. He used to remind

me at school of a sleek, complacent cat, and I hate cats

with particular loathing.

"Is Morgan lying or not when he says he shot himself

accidentally?" demanded Pickering petulantly.

"I only know what I heard from the gardener here at

the school. You'll understand, I hope, that I can't be

seen going to Morgan's house."

"Of course not. But he says you haven't played fair

with him, that you even attacked him a few days after

Glenarm came."




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