dear child, that’s all.” She grinned ingratiatingly—a horrible grimace which made him laugh— but she added immediately: “I am serious, Ferdinand. The other child was murdered, and I cannot take any more risks. It’s bad enough that they’ve been left here so long, and now that Sister Bridget is on the road to recovery—a fact which cannot very well be kept secret since the nuns see no reason for secrecy—I am really and horribly anxious.”
“Very well, mother. I suppose I may come back here to-morrow, when I’ve unloaded the girl on to Celestine? And I suppose you can depend upon her to guard the young woman from enemies?”
“I shall write to Celestine and Henri. I have it on unimpeachable authority that Henri has a veritable gun, and is as good’s a gangster.”
“Very well. I’ll be ready to start as soon as George gets back.” George, in obedience to a mysterious summons from Mother Jude, had left them. “There’s a telegraph office in the village. I’d better wire Celestine to expect us. I might as well have the solace of eating one of Henri’s dinners, since my week-end is to be ruined.”
“You are very kind, dear child,” his mother fondly replied. She liked him not so much on his own account as because she had liked his father, her first husband. Her son by her second marriage was really the apple of her eye, but he was, most of the time, in India, and she did not see very much of him. He was an authority on tropical diseases, and she had paid for his training, during her second brief widowhood, by writing her famous popular book on hereditary tendencies towards crime. Ferdinand, an unbiassed, entirely self-sufficient man, admired his mother’s taste in sons, and fostered what he called “the romantic attachment,” playing off the Freudian Oedipus complex against her with a delicate and admirable wit.
A little later Mother Jude appeared, followed by Annie and Kitty, and compelled Ferdinand to sit at table. She gave him two poached eggs for his tea, raspberry jam and some wine, which she insisted was strengthening and perfectly safe, as George, not Ferdinand, would be driving. She delighted Ferdinand, who kept her in conversation whilst Mrs. Bradley went across in the rain to obtain permission to place Ulrica Doyle in his charge on the journey to Wandles.
The Mother Superior listened sympathetically, and gave the required permission more readily than Mrs. Bradley had expected.
“I myself will speak to Sister Saint Francis,” she said. “Do you get the child to ask Sister Genevieve to pack such things as are required. What of the other little one, I wonder? Do you suppose she is safe?”
“She is in the care of her stepmother,” Mrs. Bradley replied.
“By the mercy of God, lay-sister Bridget is going to get well, the doctor tells me,” the Mother Superior continued. “By the way, I have been wondering why you were perfectly sure that she was attacked in mistake for you. Now I should have thought that she could only have been mistaken for one of the religious.”
“Not one of the religious.”
“But the habit—and in the darkness—”
“Sister Bridget was not in her habit when she was attacked.”
“But—of course, poor soul, she is not responsible. I had not understood, though, that she was not fully habited.”
“Had you not? She had put on her nightdress over all her underclothes. The fire in her room was started to get the occupant running out into the open. Of that I am fairly certain.”
“How truly dreadful this is! You do not think, then, that Sister Bridget herself set light accidentally to her bed?”
“No, I don’t think she did. When we have the children safe I shall investigate. The room remains locked for the present, so that if any evidence is there I shall expect to find it—probably on Monday.”
She went to the boarders’ playroom to find Ulrica Doyle, and discovered her playing chess with an oval-faced child of eleven whose father, a Spaniard, was a master of the game.
“I give up and retire,” Ulrica was saying as Mrs. Bradley came in. Both girls got up and curtsied at her entrance, and Ulrica gravely introduced her companion.
“This is Maria Gartez, Mrs. Bradley. She always beats me at chess, as you can see.”
“Ulrica is good at chess,” the Spanish child answered, “but I play like my father—very well.”
“You are to find Sister Genevieve, Ulrica,” said Mrs. Bradley, “and ask her to pack a suitcase for you. Your school holidays have begun a little earlier than usual. I have permission for you to go and stay at my house.”
The girl looked at her with a mixture of amusement and defiance in her eyes, and said immediately: “I want some money to cable to my grandfather in New York. Will you lend it to me, please?”
“Yes, on Monday,” Mrs. Bradley promised.
“And am I really to be taken away from here?”
“I am afraid so, yes. It may not be for very long.”
“May I go and say good-bye to Mary? I suppose my aunt will take her away on Monday? I suppose we are both to go?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Will you let me come back as soon as they find out who did it?”
“Did what?”
“Hit Sister Bridget on the head, and killed poor little Ursula.”
“But it may not be the same person who did both.”
“Oh, I should think it must be.” She turned, in her grave and courteous way, to the other child. “Goodbye, dear Maria,” she said. “God bless you and all your family. I shall see you again very soon.”
She sauntered out, but turned at the door and came back to Mrs. Bradley.
