LITMIR.BIZ

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yes, they had warned me, they had killed my dog, and—and now they have struck at my mother." He bent down his head on his hands. "She's all I've got, Tignol, she's seventy years old and—infirm and—no, no, I quit, I'm through."

      In his distress and perplexity the old man could think of nothing to say; he simply tugged at his fierce mustache and swore hair-raising oaths under his breath.

      "And the insurance?" he asked presently. "What does that mean?"

      "I sent the renewal money to this lawyer Abel," answered Coquenil in a dull tone. "They have used him against me to—to take my savings. I had put about all that I had into this home for my mother. You see they want to break my heart and—they've just about done it."

      He was silent a moment, then glanced quickly at his watch. "Come, we have no time to lose. My train leaves in an hour. I have important things to explain—messages for Pougeot and the girl—I'll tell you in the carriage."

      Five minutes later they were speeding swiftly in an automobile toward the Eastern railway station.

      There followed three days of pitiful anxiety for Coquenil. His mother's health was feeble at the best, and the shock of this catastrophe, the sudden awakening in the night to find flames roaring about her, the difficult rescue, and the destruction of her peaceful home, all this was very serious for the old lady; indeed, there were twenty-four hours during which the village doctor could offer small comfort to the distracted son.

      Madam Coquenil, however, never wavered in her sweet faith that all was well. She was comfortable now in the home of a hospitable neighbor and declared she would soon be on her feet again. It was this faith that saved her, vowed Ernestine, her devoted companion; but the doctor laughed and said it was the presence of M. Paul.

      At any rate, within the week all danger was past and Coquenil observed uneasily that, along with her strength and gay humor, his mother was rapidly recovering her faculty of asking embarrassing questions and of understanding things that had not been told her. In the matter of keen intuitions it was like mother like son.

      So, delay as he would and evade as he would, the truth had finally to be told, the whole unqualified truth; he had given up this case that he had thought so important, he had abandoned a fight that he had called the greatest of his life.

      "Why have you done it, my boy?" the old lady asked him gently, her searching eyes fixed gravely on him. "Tell me—tell me everything."

      And he did as she bade him, just as he used to when he was little; he told her all that had happened from the crime to the capture, then of the assassin's release and his own baffling failure at the very moment of success.

      His mother listened with absorbed interest, she thrilled, she radiated, she sympathized; and she shivered at the thought of such power for evil.

      When he had finished, she lay silent, thinking it all over, not wishing to speak hastily, while Paul stroked her white hand.

      "And the young man?" she asked presently. "The one who is innocent? What about him?"

      "He is in prison, he will be tried."

      "And then? They have evidence against him, you said so—the footprints, the pistol, perhaps more that this man can manufacture. Paul, he will be found guilty?"

      "I—I don't know."

      "But you think so?"

      "It's possible, mother, but—I've done all I can."

      "He will be found guilty," she repeated, "this innocent young man will be found guilty. You know it, and—you give up the case."

      "That's unfair. I give up the case because your life is more precious to me than the lives of fifty young men."

      The old lady paused a moment, holding his firm hand in her two slender ones, then she said sweetly, yet in half reproach: "My son, do you think your life is less precious to me than mine is to you?"

      "Why—why, no," he said.

      "It isn't, but we can't shirk our burdens, Paul." She pointed simply to the picture of a keen-eyed soldier over the fireplace, a brave, lovable face. "If we are men we do our work; if we are women, we bear what comes. That is how your father felt when he left me to—to—you understand, my boy?"

      "Yes, mother."

      "I want you to decide in that spirit. If it's right to drop this case, I shall be glad, but I don't want you to drop it because you are afraid—for me, or—for anything."

      "But mother——"

      "Listen, Paul; I know how you love me, but you mustn't put me first in this matter, you must put your honor first, and the honor of your father's name."

      "I've decided the thing"—he frowned—"it's all settled. I have sent word by Tignol to the Brazilian embassy that I will accept that position in Rio Janeiro. It's still open, and—mother," he went on eagerly, "I'm going to take you with me."

      Her face brightened under its beautiful crown of silver-white hair, but she shook her head.

      "I couldn't go, Paul; I could never bear that long sea journey, and I should be unhappy away from these dear old mountains. If you go, you must go alone. I don't say you mustn't go, I only ask you to think, to think."

      "I have thought," he answered impatiently. "I've done nothing but think, ever since Ernestine sent that telegram."

      "You have thought about me," she chided. "Have you thought about the case? Have you thought that, if you give it up, an innocent man will suffer and a guilty man will go unpunished?"

      "Hah! The guilty man! It's a jolly sure thing he'll go unpunished, whatever I do."

      "I don't believe it," cried the old lady, springing forward excitedly in her invalid's chair, "such wickedness cannot go unpunished. No, my boy, you can conquer, you will conquer."

      "I can't fight the whole of France," he retorted sharply. "You don't understand this man's power, mother; I might as well try to conquer the devil."

      "I don't ask you to do that," she laughed, "but—isn't there anything you can think of? You've always won out in the past, and—what is this man's intelligence to yours?" She paused and then went on more earnestly: "Paul, I'm so proud of you, and—you can't rest under this wrong that has been done you. I want the Government to make amends for putting you off the force. I want them to publicly recognize your splendid services. And they will, my son, they must, if you will only go ahead now, and—there I'm getting foolish." She brushed away some springing tears. "Come, we'll talk of something else."

      Nothing more was said about the case, but the seed was sown, and as the evening passed, the wise old lady remarked that her son fell into moody silences and strode about restlessly. And, knowing the signs, she left him to his thoughts.

      When bedtime came, Paul kissed her tenderly good night and then turned to withdraw, but he paused at the door, and with a look that she remembered well from the days of his boyhood transgressions, a look of mingled frankness and shamefacedness, he came back to her bedside.

      "Mother," he said, "I want to be perfectly honest about this thing; I told you there is nothing that I could do against this man; as a matter of fact, there is one thing that I could possibly do. It's a long shot, with the odds all against me, and, if I should fail, he would do me up, that's sure; still, I must admit that I see a chance, one small chance of—landing him. I thought I'd tell you because—well, I thought I'd tell you."

      "My boy!" she cried. "My brave boy! I'm happy now. All I wanted was to have you think this thing over alone, and—decide alone. Good night, Paul! God bless you and—help you!"

      "Good night, mother," he said fondly. "I will decide before to-morrow, and—whatever I do, I—I'll remember what you say."

      Then he went to his room and for hours through the night Ernestine, watching by the patient, saw his light burning.

      The next morning he came again to his mother's bedside

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