THE AMERICAN
have noticed—and they must have had their stories about my lady. But after all what could they say? The Marquis had been ill and the Marquis had died; he had as good a right to die as any one. The doctor could n't say he had n't come honestly by what he suffered. The next year he left the place and bought a practice at Bordeaux, and if there had been ugly tales the worst of them were among ugly people. There could n't have been any very bad ones that those who were respectable believed. My lady herself is so very respectable."
Newman, at this last affirmation, broke into a re sounding laugh. Mrs. Bread had begun to move away from the spot where they were sitting, and he helped her through the aperture in the wall and along the homeward path. "Yes, my lady's respectability's a treasure; I shall have a great deal of use for my lady's respectability." They reached the empty space in front of the church, where they stopped a moment, looking at each other with something of closer fellowship, like a pair of sociable conspirators. "But what was it," Newman insisted, "what was it she did to the miserable man? She did n't stab him or throttle him or poison him."
"I don't know, sir. No one saw it."
"Unless it was Mr. Urbain," he thoughtfully suggested. "You say he was walking up and down outside the room. Perhaps he looked through the keyhole. But no; I think that with his mother he 'd take it on trust."
"You may be sure I've often thought of it," Mrs. Bread almost cheerfully returned. "I'm sure she
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