“She is dead,” said Father Maurice, with a voice that rang. “Her sins lie buried with her. Her confession is in my hands, her repentance in the hands of God, her temptations--are put down to the account of a man whose crimes cry aloud. Long ago, Lord Erceldonne, it seems to you, you tried to take from an old man by violence his adopted daughter. Adopted, not his own, as you well knew. Your elder brother saw you, saved her in one of your own yacht’s boats, and married her. When your elder brother died, leaving a wife and a young child, who was it sent a woman to them? A woman, who thought herself your wife, who loved you till she forgot God in heaven; a desperate, miserable woman, who saw nothing but that her son and yours was disinherited if that little girl lived. Who gave her the morphin that killed Lady Erceldonne? Who asked no questions when the child disappeared and was never found? Who, when a most unhappy woman came to him with all her sins on her head, laughed and told her she was no wife of his--that she and her son were nameless? “She had done your work. You had no more need of her. But, to keep her lips shut, you promised to care for her boy, to bring him up away from you, but happily, as long as she was silent. And silent she was--till she learned how you kept your promise. How you wearied of supporting the lad, and sent him to the other side of the world to be killed. “You had no thought, Lord Erceldonne, that such a sinner would confess; that the girl you kidnaped and meant to let die would be your ruin, as soon as you found out that if she lived her mother’s money would set you on your feet. You said she was a madman’s daughter, and you knew all the time she was of the best blood in Spain. A child who was a born dompteuse, an animal-tamer, who had run away to a circus, whose owner retired and took her and his animals to his home in the Azores. Her brother died a year ago; since then, you know best how every part of the world has been ransacked for the daughter of the lost sister, to whom he left his fortune. Beryl, she was christened, for a ring her mother had always worn till she left the circus; Corselas, because the murdered Lady Erceldonne always hoped to take the child to Spain and find her relatives. It was under that name, which seemed a fancy one, that she was left at the convent. That name, which has led to the unraveling of all. The church’s arm is long, Lord Erceldonne, for you. For that most miserable woman, Mother Felicitas, her mercy is infinite.” “You have no proofs! It is a conspiracy, a lie!” said Erceldonne, but his lips were white. “This is not a court of justice, nor am I your judge,” returned Father Maurice icily. He beckoned to the men at the door, but some one was nearer, quicker than they. From an empty vestry there ran a strange figure, bent almost double, that screamed in Spanish as it ran.