Elysee proceeded:  “The girl was reprimanded.  Next week she disappeared.  To one of her companions she had confided a great desire to see Paris.  So good Father Delette was summoned, and, after a talk with the Superioress, started post-haste for the capital.  He found no signs either of poor Renee or of Banin, who had also disappeared.  The Cure was nearly heart-broken.  Each day, they told me, added a year to his appearance.  He did not cease to importune the police chiefs and to haunt the public places for a glimpse of his niece’s face.  But the summer came, and no Renee.  The Cure began to cough and grow weak.  But one day in August the Director, good Prosper, called him down to the reception-room to see a visitor.

“‘There is news for you,’” he whispered, pressing poor Martin’s hand.  “In the room he found—­”

“In the room he found—­” broke in Albert, impertinently, but with a quiet tone of authority which cowed good Elysee, “a shabby man, looking like a poorly-fed waiter.  This person rose and said, ’I am a detective; do you know Banin—­young man, tall, blonde, squints, broken tooth upper jaw, hat back on his head, much talk, hails from Rheims?’

“‘Ah,’ said Delette, ‘I have not seen him, but I know him too well.’

“The detective pointed with his thumb over his left shoulder.  ’He is in jail.  He is good for twenty years.  I did it myself.  My name is so-and-so.  Good job.  Procurator said you were interested—­some woman in the case, parishioner of yours, eh?’

“‘My niece,’ gasped the Cure.

“’O ho! does you credit; pretty girl, curly-head, good manners.  Well, she’s off.  Good trick, too.  She was the decoy.  Banin stood in the shadow with club.  She brought gentleman into alley, friend did work.  That’s Banin’s story.  Perhaps a lie.  You have a brother in Algiers?  Thought so.  Girl went out there once?  So I was told.  Probably there now.  African officers say not; but they’re a sleepy lot.  If I was a criminal, I’d go to Algiers.  Good biding.’  The detective went.  Delette stood where he was in silence.  I went to him, and helped carry him up-stairs.  We put him in his bed.  He died there.”

Brother Albert stopped.  He had told the story, dialogue and all, like a machine.  We did not doubt its correctness.  The memory of Albert had passed into a proverb years before.

Brother Albert raised his eyes again, and added, as if he had not paused, “He was ashamed to hold his head up.  He might well be.”

A strange, excited voice rose from the other end of the room.  I looked and saw that it was Edouard who spoke.  He had half arisen from his chair and scowled at Albert, throwing out his words with the tremulous haste of a young man first addressing an audience: 

“Why should he be ashamed?  Was he not a good man?  Was the blame of his bad niece’s acts his?  From the story, she was well used and had no excuse.  It is he who is to be pitied, not blamed!”