“And a good thing, too,” said the priest, still very pale but with no displeasure. “And a good thing too, else poor Buhot, that I have seen an infinity of headachy dawns with, had been beyond any interest in cards or prisoners. For that I shall forgive you the rest that I can guess at. Take Monsieur Grog's letter where you have taken the rest, and be gone.” The Swiss went out much crestfallen from an interview that was beyond my comprehension. When he was gone Father Hamilton fell into a profound meditation, walking up and down his room muttering to himself. “Faith, I never had such a problem presented to me before,” said he, stopping his walk; “I know not whether to laugh or swear. I feel that I have been made a fool of, and yet nothing better could have happened. And so my Croque-mort, my good Monsieur Propriety, has been writing the lady? I should not wonder if he thought she loved him.” “Nothing so bold,” I cried. “You might without impropriety have seen every one of my letters, and seen in them no more than a seaman's log.” “A seaman's log!” said he, smiling faintly and rubbing his massive chin; “nothing would give the lady more delight, I am sure. A seaman's log! And I might have seen them without impropriety, might I? That I'll swear was what her ladyship took very good care to obviate. Come now, did she not caution thee against telling me of this correspondence?” I confessed it was so; that the lady naturally feared she might be made the subject of light talk, and I had promised that in that respect she should suffer nothing for her kindly interest in a countryman. The priest laughed consumedly at this. “Interest in her countryman!” said he. “Oh, lad, wilt be the death of me for thy unexpected spots of innocence.” “And as to that,” I said, “you must have had a sort of correspondence with her yourself.” “I!” said he. “_Comment!_” “To be quite frank with you,” said I, “it has been the cause of some vexatious thoughts to me that the letter I carried to the Prince was directed in Miss Walkinshaw's hand of write, and as Buhot informed me, it was the same letter that was to wile his Royal Highness to his fate in the Rue des Reservoirs.” Father Hamilton groaned, as he did at any time the terrible affair was mentioned. “It is true, Paul, quite true,” said he, “but the letter was a forgery. I'll give the lady the credit to say she never had a hand in it.” “I am glad to hear that, for it removes some perplexities that have troubled me for a while back.” “Ah,” said he, “and your perplexities and mine are not over even now, poor Paul. This Bernard is like to be the ruin of me yet. For you, however, I have no fear, but it is another matter with the poor old fool from Dixmunde.” His voice broke, he displayed thus and otherwise so troubled a mind and so great a reluctance to let me know the cause of it that I thought it well to leave him for a while and let him recover his old manner.