Monsieur le Curé, who up to now had been fidgeting nervously with his hat, now raised his hands and eyes up to the ceiling to emphasise the horror which he felt at this callous suggestion. Lady Molly no longer desired to go; the half-paralysed grip on her wrist had relaxed, but she sat there quietly, interested with every fibre of her quick intelligence in the moving drama which was being unfolded before her. There was a pause now, a silence broken only by the monotonous ticking of a monumental, curious-looking clock which stood in an angle of the room. Miss de Genneville had made no reply to her sister’s cruel taunt, but a look, furtive, maniacal, almost dangerous, now crept into her eyes. [IMAGE: images/img144.jpg CAPTION: “Confronting the old woman, with a look of hate gleaming in his eyes”] Then she addressed the Curé. “I pray you pen, ink and paper--here, on this table,” she requested. Then as he complied with alacrity, she once more turned to her nephew, and pointing to the writing materials: “Sit down and write, Amédé,” she commanded. “Write what?” he queried. “A confession, my nephew,” said the old woman, with a shrill laugh. “A confession of those little peccadilloes of yours, which, unless I come to your rescue now, will land you for seven years in a penal settlement, if I mistake not. Eh, my fine nephew?” “A confession?” retorted Amédé de Terhoven savagely. “Do you take me for a fool?” “No, my nephew, I take you for a wise man--who understands that his dear aunt will not buy those interesting forgeries, perpetrated by Monsieur le Marquis Amédé de Terhoven, and offered to her by Rubinstein the money-lender, unless that confession is written and signed by you. Write Amédé, write that confession, my dear nephew, if you do not wish to see yourself in the dock on a charge of forging your aunt’s name to a bill for one hundred thousand francs.” Amédé muttered a curse between his teeth. Obviously the old woman’s shaft had struck home. He knew himself to be in a hopeless plight. It appears that a money-lender had threatened to send the forged bills to Monsieur le Procureur de la République unless they were paid within twenty-four hours, and no one could pay them but Miss de Genneville, who had refused to do it except at the price of this humiliating confession. A look of intelligence passed between mother and son. Intercepted by Lady Molly and interpreted by her, it seemed to suggest the idea of humouring the old aunt, for the moment, until the forgeries were safely out of the money-lender’s hands, then of mollifying her later on, when perhaps she would have forgotten, or sunk deeper into helplessness and imbecility. As if in answer to his mother’s look the young man now said curtly: “I must know what use you mean to make of the confession if I do write it.” “That will depend on yourself,” replied Mademoiselle, dryly. “You may be sure that I will not willingly send my own nephew to penal servitude.”