The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

“I do not understand”—he spoke deliberately, gravely. “You speak of a scheme, Monsieur Dupont? I do not understand.”

“Ah, you do not understand!”—Monsieur Duponts face screwed up into a cryptic smile. “No, of course, you do not understand! Well, you will in a moment! But first we will attend to Monsieur Henri Mentone! Now then, Marchand”—he addressed his companion, and pointed to the rear room—“that room in there, and handcuff him to you. You had better stay where you are, Monsieur le Curé. Come along, Marchand!”

Dupont and his companion ran into Henri Mentone's room. Raymond heard Madame Lafleur cry out in sudden consternation. It was echoed by a cry in Henri Mentone's voice. But he was looking at Valérie, who had stepped into the hall. She was very pale. What had she to do with this? What did it mean? Had she discovered that he—no, Dupont would not have rushed away in that case, but then—His lips moved: “You—Valérie!” How very pale she was—and how those dark eyes, deep with something he could not fathom, sought his face, only to be quickly veiled by their long lashes.

“Do not look like that, Monsieur le Curé—as though I had done wrong.” she said in a low, hurried tone. “I am sorry for the man too; but the police were to have taken him away to-morrow morning in any case. And if I went for Monsieur Dupont to-night, it was——”

“You went for Monsieur Dupont?”—he repeated her words dazedly, as though he had not heard aright. “It was you who brought Monsieur Dupont here just now—from Tournayville! But—but, I do not understand at all!”

“Valérie! Valérie!”—it was Madame Lafleur, pale and excited, who had rushed to her daughter's side. “Valérie, speak quickly! What are they doing? What does all this mean?”

Valérie's arm stole around her mother's shoulder.

“I—I was just telling Father Aubert, mother,” she said, a little tremulously. “You—you must not be nervous. See, it was like this. You had just taken the man for a little walk about the green this afternoon—you remember? When I came out of the house a few minutes later to join you, I saw what I thought looked like some money sticking out from one end of a folded-up piece of paper that was lying on the grass just at the bottom of the porch steps. I was sure, of course, that it was only a trick my imagination was playing on me, but I stooped down and picked it up. It was money, a great deal of money, and there was writing on the paper. I read it, and then I was afraid. It was from some friend of that man's in there, and was a plan for him to make his escape to-night.”

“Escape!”—Madame Lafleur drew closer to her daughter, as she glanced apprehensively toward the rear room.

Dupont's voice floated menacingly out into the hall—came a gruff oath from his companion—the sound of a chair over-turned—and Henri Mentone's cry, pitched high.