that the fear was groundless.  There was blood in the secret at the very last!  He arrived at Fleurieres almost in a state of elation; he had satisfied himself, logically, that in the presence of his threat of exposure they would, as he mentally phrased it, rattle down like unwound buckets.  He remembered indeed that he must first catch his hare—­first ascertain what there was to expose; but after that, why shouldn’t his happiness be as good as new again?  Mother and son would drop their lovely victim in terror and take to hiding, and Madame de Cintre, left to herself, would surely come back to him.  Give her a chance and she would rise to the surface, return to the light.  How could she fail to perceive that his house would be much the most comfortable sort of convent?

Newman, as he had done before, left his conveyance at the inn and walked the short remaining distance to the chateau.  When he reached the gate, however, a singular feeling took possession of him—­a feeling which, strange as it may seem, had its source in its unfathomable good nature.  He stood there a while, looking through the bars at the large, time-stained face of the edifice, and wondering to what crime it was that the dark old house, with its flowery name, had given convenient occasion.  It had given occasion, first and last, to tyrannies and sufferings enough, Newman said to himself; it was an evil-looking place to live in.  Then, suddenly, came the reflection—­What a horrible rubbish-heap of iniquity to fumble in!  The attitude of inquisitor turned its ignobler face, and with the same movement Newman declared that the Bellegardes should have another chance.  He would appeal once more directly to their sense of fairness, and not to their fear, and if they should be accessible to reason, he need know nothing worse about them than what he already knew.  That was bad enough.

The gate-keeper let him in through the same stiff crevice as before, and he passed through the court and over the little rustic bridge on the moat.  The door was opened before he had reached it, and, as if to put his clemency to rout with the suggestion of a richer opportunity, Mrs. Bread stood there awaiting him.  Her face, as usual, looked as hopelessly blank as the tide-smoothed sea-sand, and her black garments seemed of an intenser sable.  Newman had already learned that her strange inexpressiveness could be a vehicle for emotion, and he was not surprised at the muffled vivacity with which she whispered, “I thought you would try again, sir.  I was looking out for you.”

“I am glad to see you,” said Newman; “I think you are my friend.”

Mrs. Bread looked at him opaquely.  “I wish you well sir; but it’s vain wishing now.”

“You know, then, how they have treated me?”

“Oh, sir,” said Mrs. Bread, dryly, “I know everything.”

Newman hesitated a moment.  “Everything?”

Mrs. Bread gave him a glance somewhat more lucent.  “I know at least too much, sir.”