The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

Again the man shook his head.

“He does not know!” remarked Monsieur Dupont caustically. “Very convenient memory! Yes—very! Well, will you tell us where you came from?”

For the fourth time the man shook his head—and at that instant Raymond edged close to Monsieur Dupont's side. What was that in those eyes now—that something that was creeping into them—that dawning light, as they searched his face!

“He does not know that, either!” complained Monsieur Dupont sarcastically. “Magnificent! Yes—very! He knows nothing at all! He——”

With a low cry, the man struggled to his elbow, propping himself up in bed.

“Yes, I know!”—his voice, high-pitched, rang through the room. “I know now!” He raised his hand and pointed at Raymond. “I know you!”

Raymond's hand was thrust into the breast of his soutane, where he had unbuttoned it beneath the crucifix—and Raymond's fingers closed upon the stock of an automatic in his upper left-hand vest pocket.

“Poor fellow!” murmured Raymond pityingly. “You see, Monsieur Dupont”—he moved still a little closer—“you have gone too far. You have excited him. He is incoherent. He does not know what he is saying.”

Monsieur Dupont was clucking with his tongue, as he eyed the man speculatively.

“Yes, yes; I know you now!” cried the man again. “Oh, monsieur, monsieur!”—both hands were suddenly thrust out to Raymond, and there was a smile on the trembling lips, an eager flush dyeing the pale cheeks. “It is you, monsieur! I have been very sick, have I not? It—it was like a dream. I—I was trying to remember—your face. It is your face that I have seen so often bending over me. Was that not it, monsieur—monsieur, you who have been so good—was that not it? You would lift me upon my pillow, and give me something cool to drink. And was it not you, monsieur, who sat there in that chair for long, long hours? It seems as though I saw you there always—many, many times.”