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Mrs. a Cleeve cast a pitiful glance at Father Halloran’s back. The priest neither answered nor turned.

“Besides, they stole my money. All that father sent passed through the prefect’s hands and again through the concierge’s; yes, and was handled by half a dozen other rascals, perhaps, before ever it reached me. They didn’t even trouble themselves to hide the cheat. One week I might be lucky and pick up a whole louis; the next I’d be handed five francs and an odd sou or two, with a grin.”

“And all the while your father was sending out your allowance as usual– twenty pounds to reach you on the first of every month–and Dickinson’s agents in Paris sending back assurances that it would be transmitted and reach you as surely as if France and England were at peace!”

Father Halloran caught the note of anxious justification in Mrs. a Cleeve’s voice, and knew that it was meant for him. He turned now with a half audible “Pish!” but controlled his features–superfluously, since he stood now with his back to the waning light.

“Have you seen him?” he asked abruptly.

“Seen whom?”

“Your father.”

“I came around by the east door, meaning to surprise mother. I only arrived here two minutes before you knocked.”

“For God’s sake answer me ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ like a man!” thundered Father Halloran, suddenly giving vent to his anger: as suddenly checking it with a tight curb, he addressed Mrs. a Cleeve. “Your pardon!” said he.

The woman almost whimpered. She could not use upon her confessor the card of weak nerves she would have played at once and unhesitatingly upon her husband. “I think you are horribly unjust,” she said. “God knows how I have looked forward to this moment: and you are spoiling all! One would say you are not glad to see our boy back!”

The priest ignored the querulous words. “You must see your father at once,” he said gravely. “At once,” he repeated, noting how Walter’s eyes sought his mother’s.

“Of course, if you think it wise–” she began.

“I cannot say if it be wise–in your meaning. It is his duty.”

“We can go with him–“

“No.”

“But we might help to explain?”

Father Halloran looked at her with pity. “I think we have done that too often,” he answered; and to himself he added: “She is afraid of him. Upon my soul, I am half afraid of him myself.”

“You think his father will understand?” she asked, clutching at comfort.

“It depends upon what you mean by ‘understanding.’ It is better that Walter should go: afterwards I will speak to him.” The priest seemed to hesitate before adding, “He loves the boy. By the way, Walter, you might tell us exactly how you escaped.”

“The greengrocer’s wife helped me,” said Walter sullenly. “She had taken a sort of fancy to me, and–she understood the injustice of it better than Father Halloran seems to. She agreed that there was no wrong in escaping. She had a friend at Yvignac, and it was agreed that I should walk out there early one morning and find a change of clothes ready. The master of the house earned his living by travelling the country with a small waggon of earthenware, and that night he carried me, hidden in the hay among his pitchers and flower-pots, as far as Lamballe. I meant to strike the coast westward, for the road to St. Malo would be searched at once as soon as the concierge reported me missing. From Lamballe I trudged through St. Brisac to Guingamp, hiding by day and walking by night, and at Guingamp called at the house of an onion-merchant, to whom I had been directed. At this season he works his business by hiring gangs of boys of all ages from fourteen to twenty, marching them down to Pampol or Morlaix, and shipping them up the coast to sell his onions along the Seine valley, or by another route southward from Etaples and Boulogne. I joined a party of six bound for Morlaix, and tramped all the way in these shoes with a dozen strings of onions slung on a stick across my shoulders. At Morlaix I shipped on a small trader, or so the skipper called it: he was bound, in fact, for Guernsey, and laden down to the bulwarks with kegs of brandy, and at St. Peter’s Port he handed me over to the captain of a Cawsand boat, with whom he did business. I’m giving you just the outline, you understand. I have been through some rough adventures in the last two weeks,”–the lad paused and shivered–“but I don’t ask you to think of that. The Cawsand skipper sunk his cargo last night about a mile outside the Rame, and just before daybreak set me ashore in Cawsand village. I have been walking ever since.”