, what next? Churchy law fem?"

"Absinthe," said Dumars.

With the history of the missing money thus partially related, some
conjecture may be formed of the sudden idea that Madame Tibault's
words seemed to have suggested to Robbins's brain.

Was it so wild a surmise--that the religious fanatic had offered up
his wealth--or, rather, Madame Tibault's--in the shape of a material
symbol of his consuming devotion? Stranger things have been done in
the name of worship. Was it not possible that the lost thousands
were molded into that lustrous image? That the goldsmith had formed
it of the pure and precious metal, and set it there, through some
hope of a perhaps disordered brain to propitiate the saints and pave
the way to his own selfish glory?

That afternoon, at five minutes to three, Robbins entered the chapel
door of the Little Sisters of Samaria. He saw, in the dim light,
a crowd of perhaps a hundred people gathered to attend the sale.
Most of them were members of various religious orders, priests and
churchmen, come to purchase the paraphernalia of the chapel, lest
they fall into desecrating hands. Others were business men and
agents come to bid upon the realty. A clerical-looking brother
had volunteered to wield the hammer, bringing to the office of
auctioneer the anomaly of choice diction and dignity of manner.

A few of the minor articles were sold, and then two assistants
brought forward the image of the Virgin.

Robbins started the bidding at ten dollars. A stout man, in an
ecclesiastical garb, went to fifteen. A voice from another part of
the crowd raised to twenty. The three bid alternately, raising by
bids of five, until the offer was fifty dollars. Then the stout man
dropped out, and Robbins, as a sort of _coup de main_, went to a
hundred.

"One hundred and fifty," said the other voice.

"Two hundred," bid Robbins, boldly.

"Two-fifty," called his competitor, promptly.

The reporter hesitated for the space of a lightning flash,
estimating how much he could borrow from the boys in the office,
and screw from the business manager from his next month's salary.

"Three hundred," he offered.

"Three-fifty," spoke up the other, in a louder voice--a voice that
sent Robbins diving suddenly through the crowd in its direction, to
catch Dumars, its owner, ferociously by the collar.

"You unconverted idiot!" hissed Robbins, close to his ear--"pool!"

"Agreed!" said Dumars, coolly. "I couldn't raise th