THE AMERICAN
wreck. How had she meant that the force driving her was, as a thing apart from the conventual question, a "religion"? It was the religion simply of the family laws, the religion of which her implacable mother was priestess. Twist the thing about as her generosity would, the one certain fact was that they had been able to determine her act. Her generosity had tried to screen them, but Newman's heart rose into his throat at the thought that they should go scot-free.
The twenty-four hours spent themselves, and the next morning he sprang to his feet with the resolution to return to Fleurières and demand another interview with Madame de Bellegarde and her son. He lost no time in putting it into practice. As he rolled swiftly over the excellent road in the little calèche furnished him at the inn at Poitiers, he drew forth, as it were, from the very safe place in his mind to which he had consigned it, the last information given him by poor Valentin. Valentin had told him he could do something with it, and Newman thought it would be well to have it at hand. This was of course not the first time, lately, that he had given it his attention. It was information in the rough—it was formless and obscure; but he was neither helpless nor afraid. Valentin had clearly meant to put him in possession of a weapon he could use, though he could n't be said to have placed the handle very securely in his grasp. But if he had told him nothing definite he had at least given him a clue—a clue of which the decidedly remarkable Mrs. Bread held the other end. Mrs. Bread had always looked to Newman as if she
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