“Will you just continue to trust me, my dear Mark?” asked Father Murray anxiously.

“Certainly, Father.”

“Then do not question me on this point.  Only wait.”

The men walked on in silence, both thoughtful, for five minutes.  Then all at once Mark thought of the charge the Bishop had put upon him.  Here was his chance.

“Father, one good has come out of this talk.  Listen!” Mark related the incident of his ride with the Bishop, and all that had passed.  “You see, Father,” he said when the story was finished, “your reputation will be cleared now.”

Father Murray could not conceal his gratification; but he soon became grave again.

“You are right,” he said, “and I am deeply grateful to you.  I knew there was some unfortunate misunderstanding, but I never thought of that.  My old Bishop knew all the circumstances, and instructed me to keep silence so far as others were concerned.  But I thought that—­” Father Murray seemed puzzled.  His mind had reverted to the seminary days in Rome.  Then his brow cleared, as though he had come to some decision, and he spoke slowly.  “For the present it is best that no explanation be attempted.  Will your trust stand the strain of such a test, Mark?”

Mark’s answer was to put out his hand.  Father Murray’s eyes were wet as he took it.

Before Mark had noticed, they had arrived at the place of the tragedy.  Mark stopped and related the story of the shooting.  Father Murray stood as though petrified while he listened.  His face showed the deepest agitation.  It was some minutes before he could speak.

“You are in New England, Mark.  Those things are not done here.”

“Father Murray, do you see the powder marks on my hand?  Yes?  I got them trying to throw up the gun that killed the young officer.”

Father Murray’s reply was cut short.  Before he could utter two words, the tree was suddenly thrown open.  Madame Neuville sprang out of it, screaming.  Her hair was disheveled, her dress torn, and blood was trickling down her cheek from a small wound—­evidently the result of a blow.

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” she cried, wringing her hands.  “Miss Ruth is gone.  They have taken her away in a great car. Mon Dieu, Father!  Come—­come at once!”

The priest stepped into the tree, and Mark followed closely.  As he had surmised, the tree was a secret entrance into the grounds of Killimaga.  Madame Neuville pointed to the main entrance of the estate and to the road showing beyond the open gates, “The North Road,” Sihasset called it.

“That way!” she cried.  “They went that way.  There were two of them.  They were hiding by the wall and seized her just as we were going out.  I was behind Miss Ruth and they did not see me at first.  I tried to fight them, but one of them struck me and they went off like the wind. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!  Let me die!”