The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

Raymond nodded to himself. Henri Mentone might not relish the suggestion of any violence offered to the “mealy-mouthed priest,” for he had come to look upon Father François Aubert as his only friend, and, except in his fits of fury, to cling dependently upon him; but then there would be no violence offered to Father François Aubert, and the suggestion supplied a final touch of authenticity to the note, since Henri Mentone would realise that escape was impossible unless in some way the curé could be got out of the road.

Raymond destroyed the original draft, and took out his pocketbook. He smiled curiously, as he examined its contents. It was the gold of the Yukon, the gold of Ton-Nugget Camp, that he had changed into banknotes of large denominations. He selected two fifty-dollar bills. It was not enough to carry the man far, or to take care of the man until he was on his feet, nor were fifty-dollar bills the most convenient denomination for a man under the present circumstances; but that was not their purpose—they would act as a guarantee of one “Pierre” and “Pierre's” plan, and to-night he would give the man more without stint, and supplement it with some small bills from his roll of “petty cash.” He folded the money in the note, found a small piece of string in one of the drawers of the desk, stood up, took his hat, tiptoed softly across the room, out into the hall, and from the hall to the front porch.

Here, he stood quietly for a moment, looking about him; and then, satisfied that he was unobserved, that neither Valérie nor her mother had noticed his exit, he walked quickly around to the back of the house—and paused again, this time beneath the open window of Henri Mentone's room. Here, too, but even more sharply now, he looked about him—then stooped ana picked up a small stone. He tied the note around this, and, crouched low by the window, called softly: “Henri! Henri!”

He heard a rustle, the creak of the bed, as though the man, startled and suddenly roused, were jerking himself up into an upright position.

“It is Pierre!” Raymond called again. “Courage, mon vieux! Have no fear! All is arranged for tonight. But do not come to the window—we must be careful. Here—voici!”—he tossed the note in over the sill. “Until dark—tu comprends, Henri? I will be back then. Be ready!”

He heard the man cry out in a low voice, and the creak of the bed again, and the man's step on the floor—and, stooping low, Raymond darted around the corner of the house.

A moment later he was standing again in the hallway of the presbytère.

“Oh, Madame Lafleur!” he called up the stairs. “It is only to tell you that I am going out now.”

“Yes, Monsieur le Curé—yes. Very well, Monsieur le Curé,” she answered.

Raymond closed the front door behind him, and, walking sedately across the green and past the church, gained the road. It was Mother Blondin's now, but he would not go by the station road—further along the village street, where the houses thinned out and were scattered more apart, he could climb up the little hill without being seen, and by walking through the woods would come out on the path whose existence had once already done him such excellent service. And the path, as an approach to Mother Blondin's this afternoon, offered certain very important strategical advantages.