“A strange little blur came over his eyes. I turned my head for one instant. Madame Pothier, weeping, was holding up a crucifix. ‘I don’t believe God knows,’ he said. The words came very slowly from far down in his throat. We heard the voice just once more. ‘Madame!’ Then the eyes shut, and the scheduled number of hours followed, during which he was completely unconscious, until he died officially.” Hoyting smoked quietly for a moment. Then he spoke hurriedly, as if he had to complete a report. “We buried him out there. The Pothiers were perfect. She was worn out by the strain of the illness and the nursing, but not more than any one would have been after such an experience. To the last I searched her face to see if she knew. It interested me curiously. I gave her a dozen chances to question me about Paramore. She behaved throughout as one who had no suspicion. She was polite about the note-books, and asked if they were to be edited, but she evidently didn’t in the least understand what he’d been up to. He was a ‘grand savant,’ she was sure, though Père Bernard thought, perhaps, his powers could have been more fortunately employed. Of course, _ce pauvre monsieur_ was not religious, which must be a great regret to his Catholic friends. She believed firmly, however, that the Divine Mercy was infinite and that there were more ways than one of making a good death. They were taking the liberty of having some masses said for his soul. Everything was said with the most perfect feeling, the utmost sincerity and gravity. What more _could_ a blind woman have said? I haven’t a shadow of doubt that, if ever the whole story were forced upon Thérèse Pothier, she would summon her intelligence gallantly and understand it all. Only, what on the face of it was there for her to understand?... I rather wish she were dead.” “You wish--” I didn’t follow him. “I’d like to be sure that, since she’ll never know the whole truth, she’ll never know more than she knew in Dakar. I was sorry for Paramore. He was tempted, and he fell, and he struggled up again and damned temptation to its face. Not a hero, oh, no. But there is something exhilarating in seeing the elements of heroism assemble in a man who is supposed to be a putty of cowardice.” It was late, and, though Hoyting had not yet informed me of what he intended me to do with the packet, I suggested dining. We made our way to a very secluded and unfashionable restaurant, and ate, surrounded by French commercial types. Over our liqueurs, I asked him why he had given me the note-books. “Why did you give me this stuff?”