Our one present hope of getting any further information seems to me to depend on our English newspaper.  The Times stands alone as the one public journal which has the whole English nation for volunteer contributors.  In their troubles at home, they appeal to the Editor.  In their travels abroad, over civilized and savage regions alike, if they meet with an adventure worth mentioning they tell it to the Editor.  If any one of our countrymen knows anything of this dreadful massacre, I foresee with certainty where we shall find the information in print.

Soon after my arrival here, Stella had told me of her memorable conversation with Penrose in the garden at Ten Acres Lodge.  I was well acquainted with the nature of her obligation to the young priest, but I was not prepared for the outbreak of grief which escaped her when she had read the telegram from Rome.  She actually went the length of saying, “I shall never enjoy another happy moment till I know whether Penrose is one of the two living priests!”

The inevitable third person with us, this morning, was Monsieur Villeray.  Sitting at the window with a book in his hand—­sometimes reading, sometimes looking at the garden with the eye of a fond horticulturist—­he discovered a strange cat among his flower beds.  Forgetful of every other consideration, the old gentleman hobbled out to drive away the intruder, and left us together.

I spoke to Stella, in words which I would now give everything I possess to recall.  A detestable jealousy took possession of me.  I meanly hinted that Penrose could claim no great merit (in the matter of Romayne’s conversion) for yielding to the entreaties of a beautiful woman who had fascinated him, though he might be afraid to own it.  She protested against my unworthy insinuation—­but she failed to make me ashamed of myself.  Is a woman ever ignorant of the influence which her beauty exercises over a man?  I went on, like the miserable creature that I was, from bad to worse.

“Excuse me,” I said, “if I have unintentionally made you angry.  I ought to have known that I was treading on delicate ground.  Your interest in Penrose may be due to a warmer motive than a sense of obligation.”

She turned away from me—­sadly, not angrily—­intending, as it appeared, to leave the room in silence.  Arrived at the door, she altered her mind, and came back.

“Even if you insult me, Bernard, I am not able to resent it,” she said, very gently. “I once wronged you—­I have no right to complain of your now wronging me.  I will try to forget it.”

She held out her hand.  She raised her eyes—­and looked at me.

It was not her fault; I alone am to blame.  In another moment she was in my arms.  I held her to my breast—­I felt the quick beating of her heart on me—­I poured out the wild confession of my sorrow, my shame, my love—­I tasted again and again and again the sweetness of her lips.  She put her arms round my neck and drew her head back with a long sigh.  “Be merciful to my weakness,” she whispered.  “We must meet no more.”