" "Sir!" exclaimed Winifred. 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. Had he been trying to stop the grim descent, and had he dimly perceived that perhaps a fine deed would serve as the initial barrier? A drunken idea—a pearl in the midst of a rubbish heap. “You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. "I'm a peace-officer," he added, "about to arrest a notorious criminal. . .
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