At the school-gate the lamps of a carriage suddenly
blurred in the mist. Carriages were not common in this
region, and I was not surprised to find that this was the
familiar village hack that met trains day and night at
Glenarm station. Some parent, I conjectured, paying a
visit to St. Agatha's; perhaps the father of Miss Olivia
Gladys Armstrong had come to carry her home for a
stricter discipline than Sister Theresa's school afforded.
The driver sat asleep on his box, and I passed him
and went on into the grounds. A whim seized me to
visit the crypt of the chapel and examine the opening
to the tunnel. As I passed the little group of school-buildings
a man came hurriedly from one of them and
turned toward the chapel.
I first thought it was Stoddard, but I could not make
him out in the mist and I waited for him to put twenty
paces between us before I followed along the path that
led from the school to the chapel.
He strode into the chapel porch with an air of assurance,
and I heard him address some one who had been
waiting. The mist was now so heavy that I could not
see my hand before my face, and I stole forward until
I could hear the voices of the two men distinctly.
"Bates!"
"Yes, sir."
I heard feet scraping on the stone floor of the porch.
"This is a devil of a place to talk in but it's the best
we can do. Did the young man know I sent for you?"
"No, sir. He was quite busy with his books and papers."
"Humph! We can never be sure of him."
"I suppose that is correct, sir."
"Well, you and Morgan are a fine pair, I must say!
I thought he had some sense, and that you'd see to it
that he didn't make a mess of this thing. He's in bed
now with a hole in his arm and you've got to go on
alone."
"I'll do my best, Mr. Pickering."
"Don't call me by name, you idiot. We're not advertising
our business from the housetops."
"Certainly not," replied Bates humbly.
The blood was roaring through my head, and my
hands were clenched as I stood there listening to this
colloquy.
Pickering's voice was-and is-unmistakable. There
was always a purring softness in it. He used to remind
me at school of a sleek, complacent cat, and I hate cats
with particular loathing.
"Is Morgan lying or not when he says he shot himself
accidentally?" demanded Pickering petulantly.
"I only know what I heard from the gardener here at
the school. You'll understand, I hope, that I can't be
seen going to Morgan's house."
"Of course not. But he says you haven't played fair
with him, that you even attacked him a few days after
Glenarm came."