inish her retreat later. It's absurd, but better be
absurd than sorry."

And Sister Magdalen, thinking of the long penance she must undergo for
her folly, made only a polite objection. He wrote out a note at once in
a disguised hand, giving it no signature:

"The game is up. You cannot get out of the convent too quick or too
soon. At ten o'clock a cab will be at the southwest corner of Park
Square. Take it and drive to the office. Before ten I shall be with
you. Don't delay an instant. State prison is in sight. Dillon is on
your track."

"At eight o'clock this evening where will Miss Conyngham be, Sister?"

"In her room," said the nun, unhappy over the treatment intended for her
client, "preparing her meditation for the morning. She has a great love
for meditation on the profound mysteries of religion."

"Glad to know it," he said dryly. "Well, slip this note under her door,
make no noise, let no one see you, give her no hint of your presence.
Then go to bed and pray for us poor sinners out in the wicked world."

One must do a crazy thing now and then, under cover of the proprieties,
if only to test one's sanity. Edith and Claire, as he had suggested to
Curran, might be the same person. What if Claire appeared tall, portly,
resonant, youthful, abounding in life, while Edith seemed mute, old,
thin, feeble? The art of the actor can work miracles in personal
appearance. A dual life provided perfect security in carrying out
Claire's plans, and it matched the daring of the Escaped Nun to live as
Edith in the very hearts of the people she sought to destroy. Good sense
opposed his theory of course, but he made out a satisfactory argument
for himself. How often had Sister Claire puzzled him by her resemblance
to some one whom he could not force out of the shadows of memory! Even
now, with the key of the mystery in his hands, he could see no likeness
between them. Yet no doubt remained in his mind that a dual life would
explain and expose Sister Claire.

That night he sat on the seat of a cab in proper costume, at the
southwest corner of Park Square. The convent, diagonally opposite, was
dark and silent at nine o'clock; and far in the rear, facing the side
street, stood the home of the indigent, whose door would open for the
exit of a clever actress at ten o'clock, or, well closed, reproach him
for his stupidity. The great front of the convent, dominating the
Square, would have been a fine stage for th