Isobel was standing quite still in the middle of the room, her hands tightly clenched, a spot of colour aflame in her cheeks.  Arthur, who had passed Lady Delahaye and me upon the stairs, had apparently just been told the object of her visit.

“Oh, I hate that woman!” Isobel exclaimed as I entered, “I hate her!  I would rather die than go to her.  I would rather go back to the convent.  She looks at me as though I were something to be despised, something which should not be allowed to go alive upon the earth!”

Arthur would have spoken, but Mabane interrupted him.  He laid his hand gently upon her shoulder.

“Isobel,” he said gently, “you need have no fear.  I know how Arnold feels about it, and I can speak for myself also.  You shall not go to her.  We will not give you up.  I do not believe that she will go to the courts at all.  I doubt if she has any claim.”

“Why, we’d hide you, run away with you, anything,” Arthur declared impetuously.  “Don’t you be scared, Isobel, I don’t believe she can do a thing.  The law’s like a great fat animal.  It takes a plaguey lot to move it, and then it moves as slowly as a steam-roller.  We’ll dodge it somehow.”

She gave them a hand each.  Her action was almost regal.  It some way, it seemed that in according her our protection we were receiving rather than conferring a favour.

“My friends,” she said, “you are so kind that I have no words with which to thank you.  But you will believe that I am grateful.”

It was then for the first time that they saw me upon the threshold.  Isobel looked at me anxiously.

“She has gone?”

I nodded.

“I do not think that she will trouble us again just yet,” I said.  “At the same time, we must be prepared.  Tell me, whereabouts is this school from which you came, Isobel?”

“St. Argueil?  It is about three hours’ journey from Paris.  Why do you ask?”

“Because I think that I must go there,” I answered.  “We must try and find out what legal claims Major Delahaye had upon you.  What is the name of the Principal?”

“Madame Richard is the lay principal,” Isobel answered, “but Sister Ursula is really the head of the place.  We girls saw her, though, very seldom ­only those who were going to remain,” she added, with a little shudder.

“And this Madame Richard,” I asked, “is she a kindly sort of a person?”

Isobel shook her head doubtfully.

“I did not like her,” she said.  “She is very stern.  She is not kind to anyone.”

“Nevertheless, I suppose she will tell me what she knows,” I said.  “Give me the Bradshaw, Allan, and that old Continental guide.”

I presently became immersed in planning out my route.  When at last I looked up, Mabane was working steadily.  The others had gone.  I looked round the room.

“Where are Arthur and Isobel?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Like calling to like,” he remarked tersely.  “They have gone trailing.”

I put the Bradshaw down.

“I shall leave for Paris at midnight, Mabane,” I said.

He nodded.

“It seems to be the most sensible thing to do,” he remarked.  “There is no other way of getting to the bottom of the affair.”

So I went to pack my bag.  And within an hour I was on my way to France.

I rose to my feet, after a somewhat lengthy wait, and bowed.  Between this newcomer and myself, across the stone floor, lay the sunlight, a long, yellow stream which seemed to me the only living thing which I had as yet seen in this strange, grim-looking building.  I spoke in indifferent French.  She answered me in perfect English.

“I have the honour to address ­”

“Madame Richard.  I am the lay principal of the convent.  Will you permit me?”

The blind fell, and there was no more sunlight.  I was conscious of a sudden chill.  The bare room, with its stone-flagged floor, its plain deal furniture, depressed me no less than the cold, forbidding appearance of the woman who stood now motionless before me.  She was paler than any woman whom I had ever seen in my life.  A living person, she seemed the personification of lifelessness.  Her black hair was streaked with grey; her dress, which suggested a uniform in its severity, knew no adornment save the plain ivory cross which hung from an almost invisible chain about her neck.  Her expression indicated neither curiosity nor courtesy.  She simply waited.  I, although as a rule I had no great difficulty in finding words, felt myself almost embarrassed.

“I have come from London to see you,” I said.  “My name is Greatson ­Arnold Greatson.”

There was not a quiver of expression in her cold acknowledgment of my declaration.  Nevertheless, at that moment I received an inspiration.  I was perfectly sure that she knew who I was and what I had come for.

“I have come to know,” I continued, “if you can give me any information as to the friends or parentage of a young lady who was recently, I believe, a pupil of yours ­a Miss Isobel de Sorrens?”

“The young lady is still in your charge, I hear,” Madame Richard remarked quietly.

Notwithstanding my inspiration I was startled.

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“We despatched a messenger only yesterday to escort Isobel back here,” Madame Richard answered.  “Your address was the destination given us.”

“May I ask who gave it you?  At whose instigation you sent?”

“At the instigation of those who have the right to consider themselves Isobel’s guardians,” Madame Richard said quietly.

“Isobel’s guardians!” I repeated softly.  “But surely you know, Madame Richard ­you have heard of the tragedy which happened in London?  Major Delahaye died last week.”

“We have been informed of the occurrence,” she answered, her tone as perfectly emotionless as though she had been discussing the veriest trifle.  “We were content to recognize Major Delahaye as representing those who have the right to dispose of Isobel’s future.  His death, however, alters many things.  Isobel will be placed in even surer hands.”

“Isobel has, I presume, then, relatives living?” I remarked.  “May I know their names?”

Madame Richard was silent for a moment.  She was regarding me steadily.  I even fancied that the ghost of a hard smile trembled upon her lips.

“I have no authority to disclose any information whatever,” she said.

I bowed.

“I have no desire to seem inquisitive,” I said.  “On the other hand, I and my friends are greatly interested in the child.  I will be frank with you, Madame Richard.  We have no claim upon her, I know, but we should certainly require to know something about the people into whose charge she was to pass before we gave her up.”

“She is to come back here,” Madame Richard answered calmly.  “We are ready to receive her.  She has lived with us for ten years.  I presume under the circumstances, and when I add that it is the desire of those who are responsible for her that she should immediately return to us, that you will not hesitate to send her?”

“Madame Richard,” I answered gravely, “you who live so far from the world lose touch sometimes with its worst side.  We others, to our sorrow, know more, though our experience is dearly enough bought.  Let me tell you that I should hesitate at any time to give back the child into the care of those who sent her out into the world alone with such a man as Major Delahaye.”

Madame Richard touched the cross which hung upon her bosom.  Her eyes, it seemed to me, narrowed a little.

“Major Delahaye,” she said, “was the nominee of those who have the right to dispose of the child.”

“Then,” I answered, “I shall require their right proven before Isobel leaves us.  I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but I was present when Major Delahaye was shot, and I am not sure that the bullet of his assassin did not prevent a worse crime.  The child was terrified to death.  It is my honest conviction that her fear was not uncalled for.”

Madame Richard raised her hand slightly.

“Monsieur,” she said, “such matters are not our concern.  It is because of the passions and evil doing of the world outside that we cling so closely here to our own doctrine of isolation.  Whatever she may have suffered, Isobel will learn to forget here.  In the blessed years which lie before her, the memory of her unhappy pilgrimage will grow dim and faint.  It may even be for the best that she has realized for a moment the shadow of evil things.”

“Isobel is intended, then?” I asked.

“For the Church,” Madame Richard answered.  “That is the present decision of those who have the right to decide for her.  We ourselves do not care to take pupils who have no idea at all of the novitiate.  Occasionally we are disappointed, and those in whom we have placed faith are tempted back into the world.  But we do our best while they are here to show them the better way.  We feared that we had lost Isobel.  We shall be all the more happy to welcome her back.”

I shivered a little.  I could not help feeling the cold repression of the place.  A vision of thin, grey-gowned figures, with pallid faces and weary, discontented eyes, haunted me.  I tried to fancy Isobel amongst them.  It was preposterous.

“Madame,” I said, “I do not believe that Isobel is adapted by nature or disposition for such a life.”

“The desire for holiness,” Madame Richard answered, “is never very apparent in the young.  It is the child’s great good fortune that she will grow into it.”

“I am afraid,” I answered, “that our views upon this matter are too far apart to render discussion profitable.  You have spoken of those who have the right to dispose of the child’s future.  I will go and see them.”

“It is not necessary,” Madame Richard answered.  “We will send to England for the child.”

“Do I understand, Madame Richard,” I said, “that you decline to give me the address of those who stand behind you in the disposal of Isobel?”

“They would not discuss the matter with you,” she answered calmly.  “Their decision is already made.  Isobel is for the Church.”

I took up my hat.

“I will not detain you any further, Madame,” I said.

“A messenger is already in London to bring back the child,” she remarked.

“As to that,” I answered, “it is perhaps better to be frank with you, Madame Richard.  Your messenger will return alone.”

For the first time the woman’s face showed some signs of feeling.  Her dark eyebrows contracted a little.  Her expression was coldly repellent.

“You have no claim upon the child,” she said.

“Neither do I know of any other person who has,” I answered.

“We have had the charge of her for ten years.  That itself is a claim.  It is unseemly that she should remain with you.”

“Madame,” I answered, “Isobel is meant for life ­not a living death.”

The woman crossed herself.

“There is but one life,” she said.  “We wish to prepare Isobel for it.”

“Madame,” I said, “as to that, argument between us is impossible.  I shall consult with my friends.  Your messenger shall bring back word as to our decision.”

The face of the woman grew darker.

“But surely,” she protested, “you will not dare to keep the child?”

“Madame,” I answered, “humanity makes sometimes strange claims upon us.  Isobel is as yet a child.  She came into my keeping by the strangest of chances.  I did not seek the charge of her.  It was, to tell the truth, an embarrassment to me.  Yet she is under my care to-day, and I shall do what I believe to be the right thing.”

“Monsieur,” she said, “you are interfering in matters greater than you have any knowledge of.”

“It is in your power,” I reminded her, “to enlighten me.”

“It is not a power which I am able to use,” she answered.

“Then I will not detain you further, Madame,” I said.

As I passed out she leaned over towards me.  She had already rung a bell, and outside I could hear the shuffling footsteps of the old servant who had admitted me.

“Monsieur,” she said, “if you keep 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.”