He had written Laura a consoling letter from St. Malo, affecting hopefulness he did not feel; but he knew how poor a consolation any letter must be, and he was longing to finish his business and turn his face homewards. ‘Can you suggest a quicker way?’ asked Sampson. ‘I think it might be a better plan to find out the oldest priest in the parish, and question him. A priest in such a place as this ought to be a living chronicle of the lives of its inhabitants.’ ‘Not half a bad idea,’ said Sampson approvingly. ‘The sooner you find your priest the better, say I.’ ‘Come along, then,’ said Treverton, and they went up the steps of a church near at hand, and into the dusky aisle, where a few scattered old women were kneeling in the winter gloom, and where the sanctuary lamp shone like a red star in the distance. ‘What would they say at Hazlehurst if they could see me in a Roman Catholic church?’ thought Sampson. ‘They’d give me over for lost.’ John Treverton walked softly round the church, till he met with a priest who was just shutting up his confessional, preparatory to departure. He was a youngish man, with a good-natured countenance, and acknowledged the stranger’s salutation with a friendly smile. John Treverton followed him out of the church before he ventured to ask for the information he wanted, and then he explained himself as briefly as possible. ‘I have come from England to obtain information about a native of this town,’ he said. ‘Do you think that among the priests connected with your church there is any gentleman who can remember the events of the last twenty years, and who would be obliging enough to answer my questions?’ ‘Most certainly, monsieur, since I apprehend your inquiries are to a good end.’ ‘I can give you my own word for that. This gentleman is my solicitor, and if he could speak French, or if you could speak English, he would be able to vouch for my respectability. Unhappily he cannot put half-a-dozen words together in your charming language. At least I’m afraid he can’t. Do you think you could tell this gentleman who I am, Sampson?’ John Treverton asked, turning to his ally. Mr. Sampson became furiously red in the face, and blew out his cheeks like a turkey-cock. ‘_Mon ami, monsieur_,’ he began with a desperate plunge. ‘_Er, mon ami est bien riche homme, bien à faire, le plus fort riche homme dans notre part de la campagne. Il a un grand état, très grand. Je suis son lawyer--comprenney, monsieur?--son avocat._’ The priest expressed himself deeply convinced of the honourable position of both travellers, though he was inwardly at a loss to understand why a man should go wandering about the country with his advocate.