THE AMERICAN
"Something happened to your father?" Newman permitted himself to ask.
Valentin looked at him still more wide-eyed. "He did n't get well. They did n't let him."
"'Let' him?"—Newman stared back. "Get well of what?"
But the immense effort he had made, first to decide to utter these words and then to bring them out, appeared to have taken his last strength. He lapsed again into silence and Newman sat watching him. "Do you understand?" he began again presently. "At Fleurières. You can find out. Mrs. Bread knows. Tell her I made this point—at this hour—of your asking her. She 'll give you the truth itself—and then you 'll show them you know it. It may do something for you. It may make the difference. If it does n't, tell every one. It will—it will"—here Valentin's voice sank to the feeblest murmur—"it will pay them."
"Pay them?"—Newman wondered.
"What you owe them!"
The words died away in a long vague wail. Newman stood up, deeply impressed, not knowing what to say; his heart was beating as never. "Thank you," he said at last. "I'm much obliged." But Valentin seemed not to hear him; he remained silent and his silence continued. At last Newman went and opened the door. M. le curé re-entered, bearing his sacred vessel and followed by a young ministrant at his altar in a white stole, by the three gentlemen and by Valentin's servant. It was quite processional.
