But the fighting instinct rose rampant in me.  My hands are De Rance hands, the hands of soldiers as well as of priests, and they itched for a weapon, preferably a sword.  Horrified and astonished, suffocating with anger, I had no word at command to comfort this victim of abominable cunning.  Indeed, what could I say; what could I do?  I looked helplessly at the Butterfly Man, and the stronger man looked back at me, gravely and impassively.

“But what is to be done?” I groaned.

He seemed to know, for he said at once: 

“Call Madame.  Tell her to bring some extra wraps.  I am going to take Mary Virginia home, and Madame will go with us.”

“But why shouldn’t she stay here?”

“Because she’d better be at home to-morrow morning, parson.  We’re not supposed to know anything of her affairs, and I’d rather she didn’t appear at the Parish House.  Also, she needs sleep right now more than she needs anything else, and one sleeps better in one’s own bed.  Madame will see that she goes to hers and stays there.”

I was perfectly willing to commit the affair into John Flint’s hands.  But Mary Virginia demurred.

“No.  I want to stay here!  I don’t want to go home, Padre.”

Flint shook his head.  “I’m sorry,” he said mildly, “but I’m going to take you home.”  He looked so inexorable that Mary Virginia shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, all right, Mr. Flint, I’ll go,” said she.  “What difference does it make?  I’ll even go to bed—­as I’m told.”  And she added in a tone of indescribable bitterness:  “I have read that men lie down and sleep peacefully the night before they are hanged.  Well, I suppose they could:  they hadn’t anything but death to face on the morrow, but I—­” and she caught her breath.

“Why not take it for granted to-night that you’ll be looked after to-morrow?” suggested Flint.  “Mary Virginia, nothing’s ever so bad as it’s going to be.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll be looked after to-morrow!” said she, bitingly.  “Mr. Inglesby will see to that!” She covered her face with her hands.

“Oh, I don’t know!” The Butterfly Man shut his mouth on the words like a knife.  “Inglesby may think he’s going to, but somehow I think he won’t.”

“Ah!” said she scornfully.  “Perhaps you’ll be able to stop him?”

“Perhaps,” he agreed.  “If I don’t, somebody or something else will.  It’s very unlucky to be too lucky too long.  You see, everybody’s got to get what’s coming to them, and it generally comes hardest when they’ve tied themselves up to the notion they’re It.  Somehow I fancy Mr. Inglesby’s due to come considerable of a cropper around about now.”

“Between now and to-morrow night?” she wondered, with sad contempt.

“Why not?  Anything can happen between a night and a night.”  He looked at her with shrewd appreciation:  “You have taken yourself so seriously,” said he, “that you’ve pretty nearly muddled yourself into being tragic.  Those fellows knew who they were dealing with when they tackled you.  They could bet the limit you’d never tell.  So long as you didn’t tell, so long as they had nobody but you to deal with, they had you where they wanted you.  But now maybe things might happen that haven’t been printed in the program.”