You see, my riddle is solved. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. “He was alive at four o’clock this afternoon,” she answered, “but the doctors give little hope of his recovery. “I hope you’re satisfied. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. So that it seemed to her the whole world had changed —the very light of it had changed. There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal. ‘I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about.
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