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God knows how you did it. just furtive meetings. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. The stranger started at the touch, and spoke. Why hadn't he admitted that he recognized the photograph? What instinct had impelled him swiftly to assume his Oriental mask? "Why?" asked O'Higgins. Immediately she had spoken of the loose button he knew that henceforth he must show no concern over the disposition of that coat. Close upon this came another thought. She had found two copies of the magazine and carefully cut out both photos. “Mr.
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