"There was no mistake. From the first he did not mean to see us. The warden said so."
"Where has he gone?"
"I do not know. The warden would not tell me."
Kate ran into her room, and returned with a hat and coat. "He will tell me," she said. "Come."
The warden received them in his private office, grave with sympathy.
"I understand what a blow this is to you," he said. "I argued with him to make him change his intention—Dr. Benoix was as nearly my personal friend as was possible under the circumstances. But from his first coming here he was determined never to be a burden upon his son—nor upon you, Mrs. Kildare. He felt, rightly or wrongly, that he had already darkened your life too much. It was for that reason he declined to write to you or to receive letters from you. He did not wish to keep alive a—a sentiment which would be better dead."
Kate gasped, "He said that?"
"Yes," said the warden, gently. "He asks that you forget him, if it is possible, or that you think of him as one who has died."
After a moment she said in her resolute voice, "You must tell us where he is."
The other shook his head. "I cannot, and I would not if I could. He has the right to make his life as he chooses. But you may be sure that wherever he has gone, there will be a place for him." The warden's voice changed, "He will be missed here. My business is not a sentimental one. It does not soften a man. We see a great deal of evil in this place, and very little that is good, and it is easy to—to question the ways of Providence, if there is any belief left in Providence. But when men like Benoix come to us, as occasionally they do come, the old-fashioned idea of a guardian Providence becomes—well, more tangible. There seems to be a reason back of such miscarriage of justice. I believe," he said rather haltingly, "that Benoix was sent here, not because he had any need of prison, but because prison had need of him."