“Well, monsieur, what of the wounded man?” inquired the lady.

“The surgeon has dressed his wound, but pronounces it mortal.  The man, he says, cannot live over a few days, perhaps not over a few hours.  The surgeon will not leave him to-day.”

“I am very sorry to hear that.  Will you be so good as to tell me, monsieur, how the unfortunate man received his fatal injury?  I heard—­I heard—­but I hope it is not true,” said the abbess, shrinking from repeating the awful rumor that had reached her ears.

“You heard, holy madam, that he had committed suicide?” suggested the harder-nerved inspector.

The abbess bowed gravely.

“It is unfortunately quite true,” said Inspector Setter.  “You see, reverend madam, we traced him and his young—­woman—­I beg your reverend ladyship’s pardon, holy madam—­to Paris.  Afterwards, we tracked them to L’Ange.  We reached L’Ange this morning, and learned that our man had walked out toward the convent here.  We followed, and came upon him near the south gate.  I accosted him, and arrested him.  He was as cool as a cucumber, and quick as lightning!  Before we could suspect or prevent the action, he whipped a pistol out of his breast-pocket, and presented it at his own head.  I seized his arm while his finger was on the trigger; but was too late to save him.  He fired!  I only changed the direction of the ball, which, instead of blowing off his head, buried itself somewhere in his body.  He fell, a crowd gathered, we picked him up, took a leaf of the gate off its hinges, laid him on it, and brought him in here.  That is all, your reverend ladyship.  The doctor says the wound is mortal; I must remain in charge until all is over; but I don’t want a body-guard, and if your ladyship’s politeness will permit me.  I will dismiss all these men and see them out.”

“Do so, if you please, Monsieur l’Inspecteur.  Oh, this is too horrible!” said the abbess.

While she was yet speaking, the surgeon also re-entered the refectory.

“How goes it with your patient, Monsieur le Docteur?” inquired the lady.

“He will die, good madam.  Velpeau himself could not save him; he knows that he will die as well as we do, for he has recovered consciousness, and desired that a telegram be sent off immediately to summon the Duke of Hereward, whom he seems extremely anxious to see.  I have written the message; here it is.  I cannot leave my patient, or I would take it myself; but Monsieur l’Inspecteur, perhaps you can provide me with a messenger to carry this to L’Ange,” said the surgeon.

“Certainly,” agreed Mr. Setter, taking the written message and reading it.  “But you have directed this to Hereward House, Piccadilly, London?”

“I wrote it at the dictation of my patient.”

“He is mistaken.  The Duke of Hereward is living in Paris, at Meurice’s.  I will make the correction,” said Mr. Setter, drawing from his pocket a lead pencil and a blank-book, upon a leaf of which he re-wrote the message.  He tore out the leaf, and read what he had written: