s twice
removed. They artfully sounded the employees of the late jeweller,
and dogged his customers for information concerning his habits. Like
bloodhounds they traced every step of the supposed defaulter, as
nearly as might be, for years along the limited and monotonous paths
he had trodden.

At the end of their labours, Mr. Morin stood, an immaculate man.
Not one weakness that might be served up as a criminal tendency,
not one deviation from the path of rectitude, not even a hint of a
predilection for the opposite sex, was found to be placed in his
debit. His life had been as regular and austere as a monk's; his
habits, simple and unconcealed. Generous, charitable, and a model in
propriety, was the verdict of all who knew him.

"What, now?" asked Robbins, fingering his empty notebook.

"_Cherchez la femme_," said Dumars, lighting a cigarette. "Try Lady
Bellairs."

This piece of femininity was the race-track favourite of the season.
Being feminine, she was erratic in her gaits, and there were a few
heavy losers about town who had believed she could be true. The
reporters applied for information.

Mr. Morin? Certainly not. He was never even a spectator at the
races. Not that kind of a man. Surprised the gentlemen should ask.

"Shall we throw it up?" suggested Robbins, "and let the puzzle
department have a try?"

"_Cherchez la femme_," hummed Dumars, reaching for a match. "Try the
Little Sisters of What-d'-you-call-'em."

It had developed, during the investigation, that Mr. Morin had held
this benevolent order in particular favour. He had contributed
liberally toward its support and had chosen its chapel as his
favourite place of private worship. It was said that he went there
daily to make his devotions at the altar. Indeed, toward the last of
his life his whole mind seemed to have fixed itself upon religious
matters, perhaps to the detriment of his worldly affairs.

Thither went Robbins and Dumars, and were admitted through the
narrow doorway in the blank stone wall that frowned upon Bonhomme
Street. An old woman was sweeping the chapel. She told them that
Sister Felicite, the head of the order, was then at prayer at the
altar in the alcove. In a few moments she would emerge. Heavy, black
curtains screened the alcove. They waited.

Soon the curtains were disturbed, and Sister Felicite came forth.
She was tall, tragic, bony, and plain-featured, dressed in the black
gown and severe bonnet of the sisterhood.