accents begged to be informed in what he might serve him.

Hat in hand, Garnache took a step forward in that bare, scantily
furnished little room, permeated by the faint, waxlike odour that
is peculiar to the abode of conventuals. Without hesitation he
stated the reason of his visit.

"Father," said he, "a son of the house of Condillac met his end
this morning at La Rochette."

The monk's eyes seemed to quicken, as though his interest in the
outer world had suddenly revived.

"It is the Hand of God," he cried. "Their evil ways have provoked
at last the anger of Heaven. How did this unfortunate meet his
death?"

Garnache shrugged his shoulders.

"De mortuis nil nisi bonum," said he. His air was grave, his blue
eyes solemn, and the Abbot had little cause to suspect the
closeness with which that pair of eyes was watching him. He coloured
faintly at the implied rebuke, but he inclined his head as if
submissive to the correction, and waited for the other to proceed.

"There is the need, Father, to give his body burial," said Garnache
gently.

But at that the monk raised his head, and a deeper flush the flush
of anger - spread now upon his sallow cheeks. Garnache observed it,