“More, papa!  More!”

Romayne put the will into his hand.

The child’s eyes sparkled.  “Burn?” he asked, eagerly.

“Yes!”

Father Benwell sprang forward with outstretched hands.  I stopped him.  He struggled with me.  I forgot the privilege of the black robe.  I took him by the throat.

The boy threw the will into the fire.  “Oh!” he shouted, in high delight, and clapped his chubby hands as the bright little blaze flew up the chimney.  I released the priest.

In a frenzy of rage and despair, he looked round at the persons in the room.  “I take you all to witness,” he cried; “this is an act of madness!”

“You yourself declared just now,” said the lawyer, “that Mr. Romayne was in perfect possession of his faculties.”

The baffled Jesuit turned furiously on the dying man.  They looked at each other.

For one awful moment Romayne’s eyes brightened, Romayne’s voice rallied its power, as if life was returning to him.  Frowning darkly, the priest put his question.

“What did you do it for?”

Quietly and firmly the answer came: 

“Wife and child.”

The last long-drawn sigh rose and fell.  With those sacred words on his lips, Romayne died.

London, 6th May.—­At Stella’s request, I have returned to Penrose—­with but one fellow-traveler.  My dear old companion, the dog, is coiled up, fast asleep at my feet, while I write these lines.  Penrose has gained strength enough to keep me company in the sitting-room.  In a few days more he will see Stella again.

What instructions reached the Embassy from Rome—­whether Romayne received the last sacrament at the earlier period of his illness—­we never heard.  No objection was made, when Lord Loring proposed to remove the body to England, to be buried in the family vault at Vange Abbey.

I had undertaken to give the necessary directions for the funeral, on my arrival in London.  Returning to the hotel, I met Father Benwell in the street.  I tried to pass on.  He deliberately stopped me.

“How is Mrs. Romayne?” he asked, with that infernal suavity which he seems always to have at command.  “Fairly well I hope?  And the boy?  Ah, he little thought how he was changing his prospects for the better, when he made that blaze in the fire!  Pardon me, Mr. Winterfield, you don’t seem to be quite so cordial as usual.  Perhaps you are thinking of your inconsiderate assault on my throat?  Let us forgive and forget.  Or, perhaps, you object to my having converted poor Romayne, and to my being ready to accept from him the restoration of the property of the Church.  In both cases I only did my duty as a priest.  You are a liberal-minded man.  Surely I deserve a favorable construction of my conduct?”

I really could not endure this.  “I have my own opinion of what you deserve,” I answered.  “Don’t provoke me to mention it.”

He eyed me with a sinister smile.