"You would, of course, inform the police?" she asked.
"I am afraid not," I answered.
Again she was angry. This time scarcely without reason.
"Your sympathies, in short, are with the murderer rather than with his victim—the man who was shot without warning in the back? It accords, I presume, with your idea of fair play?"
"Lady Delahaye," I said, "the subject is unpleasant and futile. Let us return to the inn."
She turned abruptly around. She made a little motion as of dismissal, but I remained by her side.
"By-the-bye," I said, "we were to exchange confidences. You are here, of course, to visit the convent? Why?"
She smiled enigmatically.
"I am not sure, my very simple conspirator," she said, "whether I will imitate your frankness. You see, you have blundered into a somewhat more important matter than you have any idea of. But I will tell you this, if you like. You may call that place a prison, or any hard names you please—yet it is destined to be Isobel's home. Not only that, but it is her only chance. I am putting you on your guard, you see, but I do not think that it matters. You are fighting against hopeless odds, and if by any chance you should succeed, your success would be the most terrible thing which could happen to Isobel."
I walked by her side for a moment in silence. There was in her words and tone some underlying note of fear, some suggestion of hidden danger, which brought back to my mind at once the farewell speech of Madame Richard. There was something ominous, too, in her presence here.