“I have met Englishmen,” he said speculatively, “of a type similar--I think--to this man. They never spoke of religion, of themselves or of their own opinion; and yet they were not silent men. Upon most subjects they could converse intelligently, and upon some with brilliancy; but these subjects were invariably treated in a strictly general sense. Such men _never_ argue, and never appear to be highly interested in that of which they happen to be speaking.... They make excellent listeners....” Here the speaker stopped for a moment and passed his long hand downwards across his eyes as if the light were troubling his sight; in doing so he glanced again towards the Abbé's fingers, which were now quite motionless, the knuckles gleaming like ivory. “... And one never knows quite how much they remember and how much they forget. Perhaps it is that they hear everything ... and forget nothing. Is our friend of this type, my son?” “I think he is.” “It is such men as he who have made that little island what it is. They are difficult subjects; but they are liable to sacrifice their opportunities to a mistaken creed they call honour, and therefore they are not such dangerous enemies as they otherwise might have been.” The Provincial said these words in a lighter manner, almost amounting to pleasantry, and did not appear to notice that the priest moved uneasily in his seat. “Then,” he continued, “you have learnt nothing of importance during the few days you have passed with him?” “Nothing, my father.” “Did he make any attempt to communicate with his friends?” “He wrote a letter which he requested me to post.” The Provincial leant forward in his chair and took a pen in his right hand, while he extended his left across the table towards his companion. “I burnt it,” said René gently. “Ah! That is a pity. Why did you do that?” “I had discretion!” replied the young priest, with quiet determination. The Provincial examined the point of his pen critically, his perfectly formed lips slightly apart. “Yes,” he murmured reflectively. “Yes, of course, you had discretion. What was in the letter?” “A few words in English, telling his friends to have no anxiety, and asking them particularly to institute no search, as he would return home as soon as he desired to do so.” “Ah! He said that, did he? And the letter was addressed to--” “Mr. Carew.” “Thank you.” The Provincial made another note in the manuscript book. Then he read the whole page over carefully and critically. His attitude was like that of a physician about to pronounce a diagnosis. “And,” he said reflectively, without looking up, “was there nothing noticeable about him in any way? Nothing characteristic of the man, I mean, and peculiar. How would you describe him, in fact?”