“It was because she was so good that she gave up—­poor sweet lady!” added Mrs. Bread.

“But she was better to them than to me,” said Newman.

“She was afraid,” said Mrs. Bread, very confidently; “she has always been afraid, or at least for a long time.  That was the real trouble, sir.  She was like a fair peach, I may say, with just one little speck.  She had one little sad spot.  You pushed her into the sunshine, sir, and it almost disappeared.  Then they pulled her back into the shade and in a moment it began to spread.  Before we knew it she was gone.  She was a delicate creature.”

This singular attestation of Madame de Cintre’s delicacy, for all its singularity, set Newman’s wound aching afresh.  “I see,” he presently said; “she knew something bad about her mother.”

“No, sir, she knew nothing,” said Mrs. Bread, holding her head very stiff and keeping her eyes fixed upon the glimmering windows of the chateau.

“She guessed something, then, or suspected it.”

“She was afraid to know,” said Mrs. Bread.

“But you know, at any rate,” said Newman.

She slowly turned her vague eyes upon Newman, squeezing her hands together in her lap.  “You are not quite faithful, sir.  I thought it was to tell me about Mr. Valentin you asked me to come here.”

“Oh, the more we talk of Mr. Valentin the better,” said Newman.  “That’s exactly what I want.  I was with him, as I told you, in his last hour.  He was in a great deal of pain, but he was quite himself.  You know what that means; he was bright and lively and clever.”

“Oh, he would always be clever, sir,” said Mrs. Bread.  “And did he know of your trouble?”

“Yes, he guessed it of himself.”

“And what did he say to it?”

“He said it was a disgrace to his name—­but it was not the first.”

“Lord, Lord!” murmured Mrs. Bread.

“He said that his mother and his brother had once put their heads together and invented something even worse.”

“You shouldn’t have listened to that, sir.”

“Perhaps not.  But I did listen, and I don’t forget it.  Now I want to know what it is they did.”

Mrs. Bread gave a soft moan.  “And you have enticed me up into this strange place to tell you?”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Newman.  “I won’t say a word that shall be disagreeable to you.  Tell me as it suits you, and when it suits you.  Only remember that it was Mr. Valentin’s last wish that you should.”

“Did he say that?”

“He said it with his last breath—­’Tell Mrs. Bread I told you to ask her.’”

“Why didn’t he tell you himself?”

“It was too long a story for a dying man; he had no breath left in his body.  He could only say that he wanted me to know—­that, wronged as I was, it was my right to know.”

“But how will it help you, sir?” said Mrs. Bread.