tongue.

A priest's voice inside was chanting mass. A dozen
Breton women in their huge white winged caps and wooden
shoes hurried up to the door, through the gray fog. They
met Mrs. Waldeaux and saw her face. They huddled to
one side, crossing themselves, and when she passed, stood
still, forgetting the mass and looking, frightened, up
the steep street behind her to find what horror had
pursued her.

"They know what I have done," she said aloud.

Once when she was a child she had accidentally seen a
bloated wretch, a murderer, on his way to the gallows.

"I am he," she thought. "I--_I_, Frances."

Then the gargoyle came into her mind again. What a
capital headpiece it would make for "Quigg's" next
column! It was time this week's jokes were sent.

But at last these ghosts of yesterday's life faded out,
and she saw the fact.

She had hated her son's wife and had killed her!



CHAPTER XV