“I should say,” replied René Drucquer, “that his chief characteristic is energy; but for some reason, during these last two days this seems to have slowly evaporated. His resistance on Wednesday night was very energetic--he dislocated my arm, and reset it later--and when the vessel was in danger he was full of life. Later this peculiar indifference of manner came over him, and hour by hour it has increased in power. It almost seems as if he were anxious to keep away from England just now.” The Provincial raised his long white finger to his upper lip. It was the action of a man who is in the habit of tugging gently at his moustache when in thought, and one would almost have said that the smooth-faced priest had at no very distant period worn that manly ornament. His finger passed over the shaded skin with a disagreeable, rasping sound. “That does not sound very likely,” he said slowly. “Have you any tangible reason, to offer in support of this theory?” “No, my father. But the idea came to me, and so I mention it. It seemed as if this desire came to him upon reflection, after the ship was out of danger, and the indifference was contemporaneous with it.” The Provincial suddenly closed the book and laid aside his pen. “Thank you, my son!” he said, in smooth, heartless tones, “I will not trouble you any more to-night. You will need food and rest. Good night, my son. You have done well!” René Drucquer rose and gravely passed down the long room. Before he reached the door, however, the clear voice of his superior caused him to pause for a moment. “As you go down to the refectory,” he said, “kindly make a request that Mr. Vellacott be sent to me as soon as he is refreshed. I do not want you to see him before I do!” When the door had closed behind René Drucquer the Provincial rose from his seat and slowly paced backwards and forwards from the door to the table. Presently he drew aside the curtain which hid a small recess near the door, whore a simple bed and a small table were concealed. With a brush he smoothed back his sleek hair, and, dipping the ends of his fingers into a basin of water, he wiped them carefully. Thus he prepared to receive Christian Vellacott. He returned to his chair and seated himself somewhat wearily. Although there were but few papers on the table, he had three hours' hard work before him yet. He leant back, and again, that singular gesture, as if to stroke a moustache that was not there, was noticeable. “I have a dull presentiment,” he muttered reflectively, “that we have made a mistake here. We have gone about it in the wrong way, and if there is blame to be attached to any one, Talma is the man. That temper of his is fatal!” After a pause he heaved a weary sigh, and stretched his long arms out on either side, enjoying a free and open yawn.