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 of the Middle Ages. No wonder, then, that he went a roundabout way to his home on the high-road. He hardly knew where he was or what he was doing. Suddenly his troubled thoughts were interrupted by the rumbling of wheels coming from the opposite direction towards him. He moved mechanically out of the way to the right-hand side without even lifting his eyes to the conveyance, till, hearing it come to a standstill, he looked up involuntarily, and saw Baron Mundy getting out of the gig to meet him.

Father Cvok gave a tremendous start. He could not have been more frightened if a shot had been fired off at his ear.

“I am very glad indeed to meet you here, reverend sir,” said the baron, accosting him hurriedly. “Do you wait here, Francis,” he added in the same breath, turning to the footman; then taking Cvok’s arm, he led him away quickly in the direction of the railway station. “Just about the time I left home on my travels, towards the end of May,” the baron went on, lowering his voice, “somebody brought to your house, I believe, a strange child, a little boy of a few weeks old. Is the baby still with you, and is it well?”

“As sound as a fish,” replied the priest, all in a perspiration.

“I am glad to hear it. What did Jenny write to you?”

Cvok gave no answer.

“But she must have written to you. It is her child, and—why should I not tell you, you are an honourable man?—and mine.”

The priest felt as if he were on needles. Had it been possible, he would have bolted from the baron and taken to his heels; but Mundy stuck to him like a burr.