It had developed, during the investigation, that Mr. Morin had held this benevolent order in particular favour.  He had contributed liberally toward its support and had chosen its chapel as his favourite place of private worship.  It was said that he went there daily to make his devotions at the altar.  Indeed, toward the last of his life his whole mind seemed to have fixed itself upon religious matters, perhaps to the detriment of his worldly affairs.

Thither went Robbins and Dumars, and were admitted through the narrow doorway in the blank stone wall that frowned upon Bonhomme Street.  An old woman was sweeping the chapel.  She told them that Sister Felicite, the head of the order, was then at prayer at the altar in the alcove.  In a few moments she would emerge.  Heavy, black curtains screened the alcove.  They waited.

Soon the curtains were disturbed, and Sister Felicite came forth.  She was tall, tragic, bony, and plain-featured, dressed in the black gown and severe bonnet of the sisterhood.

Robbins, a good rough-and-tumble reporter, but lacking the delicate touch, began to speak.

They represented the press.  The lady had, no doubt, heard of the Morin affair.  It was necessary, in justice to that gentleman’s memory, to probe the mystery of the lost money.  It was known that he had come often to this chapel.  Any information, now, concerning Mr. Morin’s habits, tastes, the friends he had, and so on, would be of value in doing him posthumous justice.

Sister Felicite had heard.  Whatever she knew would be willingly told, but it was very little.  Monsieur Morin had been a good friend to the order, sometimes contributing as much as a hundred dollars.  The sisterhood was an independent one, depending entirely upon private contributions for the means to carry on its charitable work.  Mr. Morin had presented the chapel with silver candlesticks and an altar cloth.  He came every day to worship in the chapel, sometimes remaining for an hour.  He was a devout Catholic, consecrated to holiness.  Yes, and also in the alcove was a statue of the Virgin that he had himself modeled, cast, and presented to the order.  Oh, it was cruel to cast a doubt upon so good a man!

Robbins was also profoundly grieved at the imputation.  But, until it was found what Mr. Morin had done with Madame Tibault’s money, he feared the tongue of slander would not be stilled.  Sometimes—­in fact, very often—­in affairs of the kind there was—­er—­as the saying goes—­er—­a lady in the case.  In absolute confidence, now—­if—­perhaps—­

Sister Felicite’s large eyes regarded him solemnly.

“There was one woman,” she said, slowly, “to whom he bowed—­to whom he gave his heart.”

Robbins fumbled rapturously for his pencil.

“Behold the woman!” said Sister Felicite, suddenly, in deep tones.

She reached a long arm and swept aside the curtain of the alcove.  In there was a shrine, lit to a glow of soft colour by the light pouring through a stained-glass window.  Within a deep niche in the bare stone wall stood an image of the Virgin Mary, the colour of pure gold.