“She told me that she had killed some one,” Mr. Smith went on, in a whisper, his voice, even in a whisper, however, preserving its sweetness.
“See here!” said Paul, taking him by the arm eagerly; “that is what I have come for; all these months she has thought so, but it is a mistake; he died from another cause.”
“Thank God!” said Mr. Smith.
“Thank God and bring her out, man! She is the one to know.”
“I’ll do what I can. But it may not be thought best by those in authority; I must warn you that I shall obey the orders of my superior, in any case.”
“Yet you don’t look like an ass!”
“Wait here, please,” said Mr. Smith, without noticing this comment. He opened a door beside the chapel (not the one by which Mrs. Wingate had entered), and, going in, gently closed it behind him.
Paul waited. Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. He tried all the doors; they were locked. He went over to the corner where the bell-rope hung and pulled it twice; “cling-clang! cling-clang!” sounded the bell in its turret.
In answer a window opened above, and a large, placid Italian peasant appeared, looking at him amiably.
“Mr. Smith?” said Paul.