“How—where?” he gasps out in the confusion of terror.
The double interrogatory is but mechanical, and of no consequence. Hopeless any attempt at concealment or subterfuge; as he is aware on receiving the answer, cool and provokingly deliberate.
“You have asked two questions, Monsieur Dick, that call for separate replies. To the first, ‘How?’ I leave you to grope out the answer for yourself, feeling pretty sure you’ll find it. With the second I’ll be more particular, if you wish me. Place—where a certain foot plank bridges a certain brook, close to the farmhouse of Abergann. It—the plank, I mean—last Saturday night, a little after nine, took a fancy to go drifting down the Wye. Need I tell you who sent it, Richard Dempsey?”
The man thus interrogated looks more than confused—horrified, well nigh crazed. Excitedly stretching out his hand, he clutches the bottle, half fills the tumbler with brandy, and drinks it down at a gulp. He almost wishes it were poison, and would instantly kill him!
Only after dashing the glass down does he make reply—sullenly, and in a hoarse, husky voice:
“I don’t want to know, one way or the other. Damn the plank! What do I care?”
“You shouldn’t blaspheme, Monsieur Dick. That’s not becoming—above all, in the presence of your spiritual adviser. However, you’re excited, as I see, which is in some sense an excuse.”
“I beg your Reverence’s pardon. I was a bit excited about something.”
He has calmed down a little, at thought that things may not be so bad for him after all. The priest’s last words, with his manner, seem to promise secrecy. Still further quieted as the latter continues:
“Never mind about what. We can talk of it afterwards. As I’ve made you aware—more than once, if I rightly remember—there’s no sin so great but that pardon may reach it—if repented and atoned for. On Thursday night you shall have an opportunity to make some atonement. So, be there with the boat!”