It was what she had dreaded since the moment Bridget made known the fact of Bertino’s melting away. Convinced--without proof, however--that Juno was his wife, she had resolved never to live under a bigamous roof, though she might, with a wife of her own selection, endure life in a monogamous household. Wherefore she would secede from Casa Di Bello--embrace again the rubric peace of the anagamous rectory. Father Nicodemo had given her repeated assurance that the latchstring was always hanging out; that the spaghetti sauces had never been proper since she left; that they had despaired of having a palatable dish of boiled snails fricasseed with pepper pods. “Very well, my brother,” she returned frostily; “when that Neapolitan baggage comes in, I go out.” “Ah, you will enter the Church again, I suppose,” he taunted. “Have I not said it truly--once a priest always a priest?” “You will have the police in the house,” was her last word. CHAPTER XXI THE FEAST OF SPRINGTIDE INSTEAD of the arrogant negative that he had returned to Bertino’s anxious inquiry day after day, the postmaster of Jamaica this morning threw out a yellow-enveloped letter. “Your uncle died to-day.” He did not stay to read further, but thrust the paper into his pocket, fearful that some one might be looking over his shoulder. The blind terror of the hunted murderer was full upon him. At first he moved away almost on a run, but checked himself suddenly to a dawdling swing, and put on a comic air of unconcern. Not until he was far beyond the town, crossing the brushwood solitude, did he take out the writing and read Juno’s wily admonition: “Fly from America. The man-hunters are after you!”