"Ah! the great tenor's. He sings in the choir here, I believe. I see you know the house. Ask for Mr. Leslie. But stay," he ejaculated, as the thought passed through his mind that if the fellow called at the châlet the matter would have to be explained to Daphne--"stay. I will meet you this evening at eight. Be in the cathedral square at that hour. Can you contrive to be there?" The man nodded assent and then pushing open the door of the sacristy to its full extent, showed us that his words were true, and that both priest and penitent had quitted the chamber. "Stay," I said, ere the door closed; "ask him, uncle, whether Father Ignatius and the old man talked before him, and if so, what they said." My uncle put this question, and Paolo replied: "As they pushed open the door, I heard Father Ignatius say, 'When do you say this happened?' and the old man answered, 'Last Christmas Eve:' and that's all I heard, for when they saw me they stopped talking at once, and Father Ignatius ordered me in a voice of thunder to go and take down Master Angelo's Madonna and burn it here in the sacristy, though for what reason I can't make out; and then, as I said just now, they went out by the side-door, and that's all I know of the matter, and-- But there's Serafino, the deacon, looking at me; he's sure to ask why you gave me this money." And in some trepidation Paolo closed the door and occupied himself with whatever work he had to do within. My uncle had become the personification of gravity. "'Last Christmas Eve,'" he muttered, speaking slowly. "Did you hear what he said, Frank?" "I heard it, uncle." "That old man's confession must have had some reference to George." "That's what I've been fancying all along." "You say the priest started up excitedly at the recital of the other?" "Yes, with a look of unspeakable horror. I was watching him closely, and could not mistake the expression." "What caused the priest's excitement? Some terrible crime that the old man was relating. If so, whose? His own or another's?" My uncle stared slowly round at the stained casements and sacred pictures, as if expecting an answer from them. "Not his own. I will never believe that old man guilty of crime; his face is too noble." "Face is no index to character," he returned; and then he added reflectively: "and no sooner does this priest quit the confessional than he orders Angelo's picture to be destroyed. Frank, what are we to make of this?" he added, a curious expression passing over his face as he glanced at the distant figure of the artist. "Oh, that's easily explained," I rejoined. "The priest, as he sat in the confessional-box, saw Daphne and Angelo, and no doubt he considers that Madonna a sacrilegious piece of work." "Ah! true, true," he replied, his brow clearing instantly; and after a pause he added: "Frank, say nothing to Daphne of our discovery. It will only excite her unnecessarily, and revive memories of George."