No earthly power could have saved him.  But—­believe me—­she is better dead than married to him.  We had his life investigated.  He has had his just deserts.  The Grand Duchess was not the first.  It is well that she was the last, poor girl.  The most merciful thing that could have happened to a woman of her character was the thing that did happen.  She never knew of his fate.  She died thinking that she should meet him again—­that she had successfully broken down all barriers—­that she and her lover could live their lives in peace, here in America.  She never learned that there could be no happiness for her with a man like him.  Let them rest in their graves—­for graves are better than courts.  As Minister I could not say these things; but I trust you, gentlemen, and I am talking to you now as a man who has known love himself.  Good-bye.”

The little man stiffened up and became the Minister again.

“When, gentlemen, will you be ready to receive Mademoiselle Atheson?”

Father Murray bowed.  “Whenever Your Excellency is pleased to send her.”

“Perhaps, Reverend Sir, you will honor me by your presence at luncheon?” As Father Murray hesitated, he added, “It will be better that you should accompany Mademoiselle Atheson to the hotel.  Besides,” and he smiled good-humoredly, “we can get together and revise those statements properly.”

Father Murray bowed his acceptance and His Excellency took his leave.  “Luncheon is at one,” he remarked, as he left the room.  “I should be pleased if you would come a little early.  I know you will desire to talk with Mademoiselle.”

Shortly after twelve Father Murray was admitted to the Ministry, where Ruth greeted him affectionately.

“How do you like being a Grand Duchess, Ruth?”

She made a little moue.  “I don’t like it at all.  I’m abdicating to-day.”

He laughed, and they chatted together for some time, being finally joined by His Excellency’s daughters, who stayed with them until luncheon was served.  The meal proved to be a merry one, and after it was over the two gentlemen withdrew to the library, followed by Wratslav.  Then, accompanied by Ruth, Father Murray returned to the hotel—­in a long, low-built limousine.

* * * * * *

The Bishop hurriedly pushed aside his almost untouched breakfast and hastened to his study.  The time was short, and there was much to be done.  His secretary, always prompt, handed him the morning papers, but the Bishop pushed them aside.

“No, I haven’t time now.  Put them in my grip.”

The secretary started to speak, but the Bishop was already giving his instructions, and his subordinate waited, perforce, for a more opportune time—­which never came.

On the train, the Bishop’s breviary first claimed his attention.  As he paused to rest his eyes, his idle glance was suddenly arrested by the flaring headlines of a paper across the aisle.  Quickly he opened his grip and brought forth his own papers.  Ah, here it was—­on the first page.