And he told her the story of Rosemarie.

But he did not go back as far as the pitiful figure on the canal bank, he made no mention of the water-soaked wad of paper which bore a mother’s appeal to the world, he did not mention the key to Block Ten.  He told the story of Walker Farr’s devotion to a child.  He did not dare to reveal to this stranger the identity of that child, because the telltale letter had been hidden from the coroner, and old Etienne stood in awe of the curt and domineering men who enforced the laws.  But with simple earnestness and in halting speech he revealed the tenderness of Farr’s nature and gave further testimony to her woman’s understanding that this man who had come into her life possessed depths which she longed to probe.

“But the child!” she ventured, after Etienne had finished the story of how the two of them, voices in the wilderness of careless greed, had faced the masters of the city in the hotel de ville; “it seems strange that a man—­that anybody should take a child and—­” She hesitated.

“Oui, ma’m’selle, it seemed strange,” agreed the old man, studying her with sharp glance of suspicion—­a gaze so strange that she shifted her eyes uneasily.

Ah, Etienne told himself, the law sometimes sent queer emissaries to probe for it—­and he feared the law very much.

He must be very careful how he told any of the secrets which might trouble his good friend, who was now such a friend of the mighty folks; as for himself—­well, he would willingly be a martyr if the law demanded—­but he did fear that law!

“But he loved the child very much,” she hinted.

“So much that he will fight them because they have poisoned her—­he will fight them and not be scare.”

“It is strange!” she repeated.

“Oui, ma’m’selle,” he said, regarding her with still more suspicion.

“But before that morning—­when you found them here under the tree!  He told you—­”

“He walk the street with her in his arm.  I don’t tell you some more about dat t’ing what I do not know!”

But she knew that he was withholding something from her.  She mustered her courage.

“Mr. Provancher, the bad men are making threats that they will print stories about the child—­and its mamma—­to hurt your friend.  And the stories will make the mamma very sad.”

“No stories can make her sad,” said old Etienne, solemnly.  But he did not say that he had raked the mother from the canal.  The law must not know!

“But I have heard about her,” she insisted.

The old man’s mouth trembled; he was frightened.  “What you hear?” he faltered.

“Only good things.  That she was very tender and went with you to the grave.”

“Oui,” admitted Etienne, visibly relieved and grasping at this opportunity.  “She’s sweet and good.  She’s play-mamma.”

“And her name is Zelie Dionne?” she asked, her face growing white in the dusk.