At the end of their labours, Mr.Morin stood, an immaculate man.Not one weakness that might be served up as a criminal tendency, not one deviation from the path of rectitude, not even a hint of a predilection for the opposite sex, was found to be placed in his debit.His life had been as regular and austere as a monk's; his habits, simple and unconcealed.Generous, charitable, and a model in propriety, was the verdict of all who knew him.
"What, now?" asked Robbins, fingering his empty notebook.
"/Cherchez la femme/," said Dumars, lighting a cigarette."Try Lady Bellairs."
This piece of femininity was the race-track favourite of the season.
Being feminine, she was erratic in her gaits, and there were a few heavy losers about town who had believed she could be true.The reporters applied for information.
Mr.Morin? Certainly not.He was never even a spectator at the races.
Not that kind of a man.Surprised the gentlemen should ask.
"Shall we throw it up?" suggested Robbins, "and let the puzzle department have a try?"
"/Cherchez la femme/," hummed Dumars, reaching for a match."Try the Little Sisters of What-d'-you-call-'em."
It had developed, during the investigation, that Mr.Morin had held this benevolent order in particular favour.He had contributed liberally toward its support and had chosen its chapel as his favourite place of private worship.It was said that he went there daily to make his devotions at the altar.Indeed, toward the last of his life his whole mind seemed to have fixed itself upon religious matters, perhaps to the detriment of his worldly affairs.
Thither went Robbins and Dumars, and were admitted through the narrow doorway in the blank stone wall that frowned upon Bonhomme Street.An old woman was sweeping the chapel.She told them that Sister Felicite, the head of the order, was then at prayer at the altar in the alcove.
In a few moments she would emerge.Heavy, black curtains screened the alcove.They waited.
Soon the curtains were disturbed, and Sister Felicite came forth.She was tall, tragic, bony, and plain-featured, dressed in the black gown and severe bonnet of the sisterhood.
Robbins, a good rough-and-tumble reporter, but lacking the delicate touch, began to speak.
They represented the press.The lady had, no doubt, heard of the Morin affair.It was necessary, in justice to that gentleman's memory, to probe the mystery of the lost money.It was known that he had come often to this chapel.Any information, now, concerning Mr.Morin's habits, tastes, the friends he had, and so on, would be of value in doing him posthumous justice.
Sister Felicite had heard.Whatever she knew would be willingly told, but it was very little.Monsieur Morin had been a good friend to the order, sometimes contributing as much as a hundred dollars.The sisterhood was an independent one, depending entirely upon private contributions for the means to carry on its charitable work.Mr.Morin had presented the chapel with silver candlesticks and an altar cloth.
He came every day to worship in the chapel, sometimes remaining for an hour.He was a devout Catholic, consecrated to holiness.Yes, and also in the alcove was a statue of the Virgin that he had himself modeled, cast, and presented to the order.Oh, it was cruel to cast a doubt upon so good a man!
Robbins was also profoundly grieved at the imputation.But, until it was found what Mr.Morin had done with Madame Tibault's money, he feared the tongue of slander would not be stilled.Sometimes--in fact, very often--in affairs of the kind there was--er--as the saying goes--er--a lady in the case.In absolute confidence, now--if--perhaps--Sister Felicite's large eyes regarded him solemnly.
"There was one woman," she said, slowly, "to whom he bowed--to whom he gave his heart."
Robbins fumbled rapturously for his pencil.
"Behold the woman!" said Sister Felicite, suddenly, in deep tones.
She reached a long arm and swept aside the curtain of the alcove.In there was a shrine, lit to a glow of soft colour by the light pouring through a stained-glass window.Within a deep niche in the bare stone wall stood an image of the Virgin Mary, the colour of pure gold.
Dumars, a conventional Catholic, succumbed to the dramatic in the act.
He bowed his head for an instant and made the sign of the cross.The somewhat abashed Robbins, murmuring an indistinct apology, backed awkwardly away.Sister Felicite drew back the curtain, and the reporters departed.
On the narrow sidewalk of Bonhomme Street, Robbins turned to Dumars, with unworthy sarcasm.
"Well, what next? Churchy law fem?"
"Absinthe," said Dumars.
With the history of the missing money thus partially related, some conjecture may be formed of the sudden idea that Madame Tibault's words seemed to have suggested to Robbins's brain.
Was it so wild a surmise--that the religious fanatic had offered up his wealth--or, rather, Madame Tibault's--in the shape of a material symbol of his consuming devotion? Stranger things have been done in the name of worship.Was it not possible that the lost thousands were molded into that lustrous image? That the goldsmith had formed it of the pure and precious metal, and set it there, through some hope of a perhaps disordered brain to propitiate the saints and pave the way to his own selfish glory?
That afternoon, at five minutes to three, Robbins entered the chapel door of the Little Sisters of Samaria.He saw, in the dim light, a crowd of perhaps a hundred people gathered to attend the sale.Most of them were members of various religious orders, priests and churchmen, come to purchase the paraphernalia of the chapel, lest they fall into desecrating hands.Others were business men and agents come to bid upon the realty.A clerical-looking brother had volunteered to wield the hammer, bringing to the office of auctioneer the anomaly of choice diction and dignity of manner.
A few of the minor articles were sold, and then two assistants brought forward the image of the Virgin.
