the far end of the passage was a flight of steps which reached a round-headed door-way infinitely ecclesiastical. At the base of the steps stood a young nun. She inclined her head to dismiss Annie, who curtsied and retired, and then held out her hand to Mrs. Bradley.
“I am Sister Mary-Joseph. Reverend Mother Superior is glad you have come,” she said. Mrs. Bradley followed her up the outside staircase, walked past her, by invitation, when they came to the round-headed door-way, found the door ajar, and went in. The nun followed, and closed the door very quietly.
“I have prayed,” said the Mother Superior gently. “This is the answer to my prayers.”
Mrs. Bradley, unaccustomed to such a theory as applied to herself, bowed and grinned. The Mother Superior, a tall old lady with a voice as thin and sweet as the notes of a spinet, came towards her. “I am glad to see you,” she said, a statement which Mrs. Bradiey could more easily credit.
“I am glad to have come,” she said.
“It is good of you to give up your time. You must tell us how much to pay.”
“I am here on holiday. I shall be pleased to do anything I can.”
“It is good of you. Our income is small. God will bless you.‘’ She accepted Mrs. Bradley’s unpaid services with gentle matter-of-factness, and both of them sat down. ”The others will tell you the details. We have been very unhappy.”
“I know the story in outline. Will you tell me why you want to have it investigated?”
“Tell me, first, the story as you know it.”
“My son met Father Thomas. Since then I have talked to Annie and to Miss Bonnet.”
“That is a good child, that Miss Bonnet. She is not a Catholic, but she has a good heart. She comes here for half her usual fee, and stays often to help our poor orphans—that for nothing. There are so many good people… We are thankful. But this death… Tell me what you have heard. ”
Mrs. Bradley told her of the conversation with Ferdinand, who had recounted Father Thomas’ version of the story, and described her own investigations, including the questions she had put to Annie. As she talked, she studied the austere room and its occupant, and the young nun in the door-way. In contrast with the comfort of the guest-house, the Superior’s lodging was noticeably, uncompromisingly bare. Except for the two chairs there was no furniture except a writing-table, a praying-desk and a religious picture. Through an opening in the wall was a smaller room containing, as far as Mrs. Bradley could determine, nothing except a mattress on the floor, a washing-stand and a crucifix. There might have been other furnishings, but from where she sat she could not see them.
In the room in which she was, the walls were patched with damp, and the one window was medieval in scope and placing, little more than an embrasured slit high up in the bare brick wall.
“And you want to know why we wish to have that story investigated?” the Mother Superior said, with a courteous use of Mrs. Bradley’s own expression which its originator was quick to appreciate. “I will explain.” She remained for a moment as though she were thinking, and then said, “We know our children. This one, little Ursula Doyle, came to us when she was six. We have had her for seven years. She would not, under any circumstances, have taken her own life. It is unthinkable. So grave a sin—”
“I understand that she was in trouble at school.”
“Yes, I know. It was suggested by the coroner that that was a reason… It is impossible.”
“Children exaggerate the importance of these things, do they not? A reason which might appear inadequate, or even ridiculous, to a grown-up person—?”
“No amount of exaggeration would account for such a terrible reaction. The child’s death was an accident. It must have been. You will find out… You will help us?”
“I will find out what I can, but I am not a Catholic. Scientific truth concerns me—nothing else—and you will understand that I shall remain entirely unbiased.”
“Love concerns you,” said the Mother Superior, with a gentle smile. “We give you a free hand. Go and talk to the others, those who teach in our school. They are among the children—they knew the child, poor mite!—very much better than I did.” She broke off, her frail voice leaving no echo in the room. Then she added, as Mrs. Bradley rose, “God has laid on us a burden, and I, my dear friend, thankfully transfer it to you. I will pray for your good success.” She patted Mrs. Bradley’s shoulder, and signed to the motionless young nun to go with her back to the cloister.
“I take it,” said Mrs. Bradley, as they walked through the nuns’ garden towards the guest-house, “that I shall not be allowed to interview any of the Community alone? If, for instance, I were to begin to question you about the death of the child, you would refuse to answer except in the presence of another of the nuns?”
Mother Mary-Joseph smiled. She could not, Mrs, Bradley decided, be more than twenty-five years old.
“We are always permitted to talk to visitors,” she said.
“Which day did the child die?”
“Last Monday, just a week ago to-day.”
“When was the inquest?”
“On Tuesday.”
“Were any relatives present?”
“An aunt from Wimbledon. Her husband is the nearest living relative except for the grandfather in New York and the cousins, a girl of fifteen, and another of thirteen, who are at school here.”
“Were you acquainted with Ursula Doyle?”
“Yes. I teach English to her form.”
“What kind of girl was she?”
