in a low mechanical tone. "Was it for the crime
committed on that night, I wonder? Were my fears well-grounded, and did
my prediction of discovery come true? Ah, if Ralph had but listened to
my appeal!" she cried in agony. "But he is dead--dead! Shot by the
police--shot down like an animal. Ah, what an ignominious end!"

The newspaper fell from her fingers. The blow had stunned her.

She stood swaying slightly, her white face turned towards the open
window, her eyes staring straight before her--silent, motionless,
aghast.

Sister Gertrude entered, but so preoccupied was she that she was utterly
unconscious of her presence.

"You are unwell, Jean," she said, in her soft, refined voice, for before
entering the convent five years ago she had moved in society, being the
daughter of a well-known Paris banker. "Tell me, dear, what ails you?"

Jean started, and stared at her in amazement.

"I--I--oh, there is nothing," she faltered. "I don't feel very
well--that's all."

The newspaper lay on the floor, where it had fallen from her white,
nerveless fingers.

In Jean's face was a hard, haggard look, and Sister Gertrude, a woman of
the world, noted it, and wondered what could have affected her in those
few moments of her absence.

"Tell me, dear, how you feel? Can I get you anything?" she asked her
friend, to whom she was so much attached.

"Nothing, thanks," was her reply, with a great effort. "I shall be quite
well soon, I hope."

Sister Gertrude advanced towards her, and, placing her hand upon the
girl's shoulder tenderly, said:

"You will soon be all right again, dear, I hope. But why keep your
secret? Why not confide in me?"

"Secret!" she echoed. "It is no secret!"

"Then why not tell me the truth right out? What has upset you?"

Jean clenched her teeth. How could she confess that she was the wife of
a notorious thief--a man who had been shot like a dog by the police?

No. Her secret was hers, and it should remain so. Her past from that
moment was buried. None, save the Mother Superior at Enghien and the two
sisters who had found her in the Tuileries Gardens, knew the truth. And
none should now know.

"Really, you are a little too solicitous of my welfare," she laughed,
well feigning amusement at the situation. "I am quite well now. Quite
well, I assure you."

And picking up the old copy of the newspaper, she resumed the wrapping
up of the parcel of underclothing which she had made with her own hands