I’m sorry. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable. 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. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. He had very nearly cleared the board, when a knock was heard below, and descending at the summons, he found his two janizaries. I take more than their blood, John.
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