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hand book
KEY NOTES TERMS
DEFINITIONS FORMULAE

Physics
Highly Useful for Class XI & XII Students,
Engineering & Medical Entrances and Other
Competitions
hand book
KEY NOTES TERMS
DEFINITIONS FORMULAE

Physics
Highly Useful for Class XI & XII Students,
Engineering & Medical Entrances and Other
Competitions

Keshav Mohan
Supported by
Mansi Garg
Manish Dangwal

ARIHANT PRAKASHAN, (SERIES) MEERUT

 Arihant Prakashan (Series), Meerut
All Rights Reserved

© Publisher
No part of this publication may be re-produced, stored in a retrieval system or distributed
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/arihantpub /@arihantpub Arihant Publications /arihantpub
PREFACE
Handbook means reference book listing brief facts on a subject.
So, to facilitate the students in this we have released this
Handbook of Physics. This book has been prepared to serve
the special purpose of the students, to rectify any query or any
concern point of a particular subject.
This book will be of highly use whether students are looking
for a quick revision before the board exams or just before other
examinations like Engineering Entrances, Medical Entrances
or any similar examination, they will find that this handbook
will answer their needs admirably.
This handbook can even be used for revision of a subject in the
time between two shift of the exams, even this handbook can
be used while travelling to Examination Centre or whenever
you have time, less sufficient or more.
The format of this handbook has been developed particularly so
that it can be carried around by the students conveniently.

The objectives of publishing this handbook are :

— To support students in their revision of a subject just before
an examination.
— To provide a focus to students to clear up their doubts about
particular concepts which were not clear to them earlier.
— To give confidence to the students just before they attempt
important examinations.
However, we have put our best efforts in preparing this book,
but if any error or what so ever has been skipped out, we will
by heart welcome your suggestions. A part from all those who
helped in the compilation of this book a special note of thanks
goes to Ms. Yojna Sharma of Arihant Publications.

Author
CONTENTS
1. Units and — Velocity
Measurement 1-8 — Acceleration
— Physical Quantities — Uniform Motion
— Units — Different Graphs of Motion
— Systems of Units — Equations of Uniformly
— Dimensions Accelerated Motion
— Motion Under Gravity
— Homogeneity Principle
— Significant Figures 4. Motion in a Plane
— Rounding off
(Projectile and Circular
— Error
Motion) 27-41
— Combinations of Errors
— Projectile Motion and
Circular Motion
2. Scalars and Vectors 9-17
— Centripetal Acceleration
— Scalars
— Tensors — Centripetal Force
— Centrifugal Force
— Vectors
— Other Types of Vectors — Examples For obtaining
Centripetal
— Addition of Vectors
— Force in Daily life
— Rotation of Vectors
— Motion of a particle in
— Direction Cosines of a a Vertical Circle
Vector
— Subtraction of Vectors
5. Laws of Motion 42-53
— Multiplication of Vectors
— Inertia
— Scalar or Dot Product of
— Force
Two Vectors
— Linear Momentum
— Vector or Cross Product
of Two Vectors — Impulse
— Newton's Laws of Motion
— Division of Vectors by
— Rocket
Scalars
— Equilibrium of a Particle
3. Motion in a
— Weight
Straight Line 18-26 — Friction
— Motion — Motion on a
— Rest
Rough Inclined
— Frame of Reference Plane of Bodies
— Motion
— Distance in Contact
— Displacement
— Pulley Mass System
— Speed
6. Work, Energy and — Gravitational Field
Power 54-62 — Gravitational Potential
— Work Energy
— Energy — Relation between
— Other Forms of
Gravitational Field and
Energy Potential
— Principle of Conservation of
Energy — Kepler’s Laws of Planetary
Motion
— Power
— Satellite
—
— Collisions
One Dimensional or — Orbital Velocity
Head-on Collision — Escape Velocity
— Two Dimensional or — Weightlessness
Oblique Collisions
9. Elasticity 88-95
7. Rotational Motion 63-73 — Deforming Force
— Centre of Mass — Elasticity
— Linear Momentum of a — Stress
System of Particles — Strain
— Rigid Body — Hooke's Law
— Translational Motion — Elastic Modulii
— Rotational Motion — Types of Modulus of
— Moment of Inertia Elasticity
— The Radius of Gyration — Poisson's Ratio
— Parallel Axes Theorem — Stress and Strain Curve
— Perpendicular Axes — Cantilever
Theorem
10. Hydrostatics 96-101
— Moment of Inertia of
Homegeneous Rigid Bodies — Fluids
— Torque
— Thrust
— Angular Momentum
— Pressure
— Centre of Gravity
— Pressure Exerted by the
Liquid
— Angular Impulse
— Buoyancy
— Rotational Kinetic
Energy — Pascal's Law
8. Gravitation 74-87 — Archimedes' Principle
— Laws of Floatation
— Newton's Law of Gravitation
— Central Forces — Density and Relative
— Acceleration Due to Gravity Density
— Density of a Mixture of
— Factors Affecting cceleration
Substances
Due to Gravity
11. Hydrodynamics 102-109 14. Kinetic Theory of
— Flow of liquid Gases 130-137
— Reynold's Number — Kinetic Energy of an Ideal
— Equation of Continuity Gas
— Energy of a Liquid — Assumption of Kinetic
— Bernoulli's Theorem Theory of Gases
— Venturimeter — Gas Laws
— Torricelli's Theorem — Ideal or Perfect Gas
— Viscosity Equation
— Poiseuille's Formula — Real Gases
— Rate of Flow of Liquid — Degree of Freedom
— Stoke's Law and — Mean Free Path
Terminal Velocity — Brownian Motion
— Critical Velocity — Critical Temperature,
Pressure and Volume
12. Surface Tension 110-118
— Adhesive Force 15. Thermodynamics 138-147
— Cohesive Force — Thermodynamical Terms
— Molecular Range — Work done
— Factors Affecting Surface — Internal Energy (U)
Tension — Zeroth Law of
— Surface Energy Thermodynamics
— Angle of Contact — First Law of
— Capillarity Thermodynamics
— Zurin's Law — Thermodynamic Processes
— Second Law of
13. Thermometry and Thermodynamics
Calorimetry 119-129 — Entropy
— Heat — Heat Engine
— Temperature and its — Carnot’s Cycle
Measurement — Refrigerator
— Thermometric Property
— Thermometeres 16. Transmission of
— Thermal Expansion Heat 148-153
— Thermal Equilibrium — Heat Transmission
— Triple Point of Water — Ingen Hausz Experiment
— Specific Heat — Reflectance or Reflecting
— Thermal (Heat) Capacity Power
— Water Equivalent — Absorptance or
— Latent Heat Absorbing Power
— Joule's Law — Transmittance or
— Calorimetry Transmitting Power
 — Emissive Power — Interference
— Emissivity — Beats
— Perfectly Black Body — Echo
— Kirchhoff 's Law — Stationary or standing
— Stefan's Law Waves
— Wien's Displacement Law — Vibrations in a stretched
— Solar Constant string
— Organ Pipes
17. Oscillations 154-165 — Resonance Tube
— Periodic Motion — Melde's Experiment
— Oscillatory Motion — Doppler's Effect
— Harmonic Oscillation
19. Electrostatics 185-207
— Simple Harmonic Motion
— Some Important Formulae — Charge
of SHM — Coulomb's Law in Vector
— Graphical Representation of Form
SHM — Electric Field
— Force in SHM — Electric Potential
— Energy in SHM — Equipotential Surface
— Simple Pendulum — Electric Flux
— Second's Pendulum — Gauss's Theorem
— Conical Pendulum — Electric Dipole
— Compound Pendulum — Work Done
— Torisonal Pendulum — Dipole in Non-Uniform
— Spring Pendulum Electric Field
— Oscillations of liquid in a — Van-de-Graaff Generator
U-tube
— Lissajou's Figures 20. Current
Electricity 208-219
18. Waves and Sound 166-184 — Electric Current
— Waves — Current Density
— Sound Waves — Mobility
— Velocity of Longitudinal — Ohm's Law
(Sound) Wave — Electrical Resistance
— Shock Waves — Resistivity
— Speed of transverse Motion — Electrical Conductivity
— Simple Harmonic Wave — Superconductors
— Superposition of Waves — Resistors
 — Combination of Resistors — Fleming's Left Hand Rule
— Electric Cell — Motion of a Charged Particle
— Kirchhoff 's Laws in a Uniform Magnetic Field
— Wheatstone Bridge — Cyclotron
— Meter Bridge — Magnetic Dipole
— Potentiometer — Moving Coil Galvanometer
— Ammeter
21. Heating and Chemical — Voltmeter
Effects of Current 220-226
— Electric Energy 23. Magnetism and
— Electric Power Matter 240-256
— Heating Effects of Current — Natural Magnet
— Electric Fuse — Artificial Magnet
— Short Circuiting — Magnetic Dipole
— Overloading — Coulomb's Law
— Rating of Electrical — Gauss's Law in Magnetism
Appliances — Earth's Magnetism
— Fusing of Bulb When it — Magnetic Map
is Switched On — Neutral Points
— Chemical Effect of Electric — Tangent Law
Current — Deflection Magnetometer
— Faraday's Laws Electrolysis — Tangent Galvanometer
— Thermoelectric Effect — Vibration Magnetometer
— Thermoelectric Power — Hysteresis
— Peltier Effect — Coercivity
— Thomon's Effect
— Thermopile 24. Electromagnetic
Induction 257-263
22. Magnetic Effect of — Magnetic Flux
Current 227-239 — Faraday's Laws of
— Oersted's Experiment Electromagnetic Induction
— Biot Savart's Law — Lenz's Law
— Magnetic Field Due to a — Fleming's Right Hand Rule
Straight Current Carrying — Eddy Currents
Conductor — Self-Induction
— Right Hand Thumb Rule — Mutual Induction
— Solenoid — Grouping of Coils
— Toroid
25. Alternating — Aberration of Lenses
Current 264-274 — Prism
— Alternating Current — Dispersion of Light
— Reactance — Angular Dispersion
— Impedance — Scattering of Light
— Power in an AC Circuit — Human Eye
— Resonance in an AC Circuit — Simple Microscope
— Wattless Current — Astronomical Telescope
— Choke Coil — Reflecting Telescopes
— AC Generator or Dynamo 28. Wave Optics
— DC Motor 305-316
— Transformer — Newton’s Corpuscular
— Transformation Ratio Theory of light
— Huygens’ Wave Theory
26. Electromagnetic of light
— Huygens’ Principle
Waves 275-278
— Superposition of Waves
— Displacement Current
— Interference of Light
— Electromagnetic Waves
— Young's Double Slit
— Electromagnetic Spectrum
Experiment (YDSE)
27. Ray Optics — Fringe Width
279-304
— Light — Fresnel's Biprism
— Important Terms — Diffraction
— Reflection of Light — Polarisation
— Polaroid
— Types of Reflection
— Mirror — Doppler's Effect in Light
— Linear Magnification
— Areal and Axial 29. Electrons, Photons and
Magnification X-rays 317-329
— Refraction of Light — Cathode Rays
— Refractive Index — Positive Rays
— Cauchy's Formula
— Photoelectric
— Critical Angle Effect
— Compton Effect
— Total Internal — Matter Waves on de-Broglie
Reflection (TIR) Waves
— Optical Fibres

— Lens — Davisson-Germer
— Cutting of a Lens — Experiment
X-rays
— X-rays Spectrum
30. Atomic Physics 330-336 — Basic Logic Gates
— Dalton's Atomic Theory — Combination of Gates
— Thomson's Atomic Model
— Rutherford's Atomic Model
33. Communication 363-373
— Communication
— Bohr's Atomic Model
— Communication System
— Hydrogen Spectrum Series
— Modulation
— Wave
Model — Demodulation
31. Nuclear Physics 337-343 — Antenna
— Nucleus — Earth's Atmosphere
— Propagation of Radio Waves
— Isotopes — Microwave Propagation
— Isobars
Isotones — Satellite Communication
— Isomers — Merits of
— Nuclear Satellite
Force
— Mass Defect — Communication
Demerits of Satellite
— Nuclear Binding Energy Communication
— Nuclear
Reaction —
— Optical Communication
Internet Telephony
— Nuclear Fusion
Fission — Mobile Telephony

— Radioactivity — Global Positoining System

— Radioactive Decay Law
(GPS)
32. Electronics 344-362 34. Universe 374-380
— Solid — Solar System
— Energy Bands of Solids — Sun
— Types of Semiconductor — Planets
— p-n Junction and Diode — Inner Structure of the Earth
— Zener Diode — Stars
— Light Emitting Diodes — Life Cycle of a Star
(LED) — Death of a Star
— p-n Junction Diode as — Black Hole
Rectifier — Galaxy
— Transistor — Constellation
— Logic Gate — The Big-Bang Theory
— Truth Table
Appendix 381-451
 1
Units and
Measurement
The comparison of any physical quantity with its standard unit is
called measurement.

Physical Quantities
All the quantities which can be measured directly or indirectly in
terms of which the laws of Physics are described are called physical
quantities.

Units
A standard amount of a physical quantity chosen to measure the
physical quantity of the same kind is called a physical unit. It should be
easily reproducible, internationally accepted.

Fundamental Quantities and Their Units

Those physical quantities which are independent to each other are
called fundamental quantities and their units are called
fundamental units.

Fundamental Fundamental units

quantities Name Symbol Definition
Length Metre m The metre is the length of the path
travelled by light in vacuum during a
time interval of 1/299,792,458 of a
second. (1983)
Mass Kilogram kg The kilogram is equal to the mass of
the International prototype of the
kilogram (a platinum-iridium alloy
cylinder) kept at International Bureau of
Weights and Measures at Sevres, near
Paris, France. (1889)
2 Handbook of Physics

Fundamental Fundamental units

quantities Name Symbol Definition
Time Second s The second is the duration of
9,192,631,770 periods of the radiation
corresponding to the transition between
the two hyperfine levels of the ground
state of the cesium-133 atom. (1967)
Electric current Ampere A The ampere is that constant current
which, if maintained in two straight
parallel conductors of infinite length,
of negligible circular cross-section
and placed 1 m apart in vacuum,
would produce a force between these
conductors equal to 2 ´ 10-7 N/m of
length. (1948)
Thermodynamic Kelvin K The kelvin is the fraction 1/273.16 of
temperature the thermodynamic temperature of the
triple point of water. (1967)
Amount of Mole mol The mole is the amount of substance of
substance a system which contains as many
elementary entities as there are atoms
in 0.012 kg of carbon-12. (1971)
Luminous Candela cd The candela is the luminous intensity in
intensity a given direction of a source that emits
monochromatic radiation of frequency
540 ´ 1012 Hz and that has a radiant
intensity in that direction of 1/683 watt
per steradian. (1979)

Supplementary Fundamental Quantities and Their Units

Radian and steradian are two supplementary fundamental units. It
measures plane angle and solid angle respectively.

Supplementary Supplementary units

fundamental
quantities Name Symbol Definition
Plane angle Radian rad One radian is the angle subtended at the
centre of a circle by an arc equal in length to
ds
the radius of the circle. i.e. dq =
r

Solid angle Steradian sr One steradian is the solid angle subtended at

the centre of a sphere, by that surface of the
sphere, which is equal in area, to the square of
radius of the sphere.
dA
i.e. dW = 2
r
Other documents randomly have
different content
 Raymond did not reply—he was listening now to the footsteps of
Monsieur Dupont and the doctor, as they passed by along the
hallway outside. Came then a sharp, angry voice raised querulously
from the rear room—that was Henri Mentone. Monsieur Dupont's
voice snapped in reply; and then the voices merged into a confused
buzz and murmur. He glanced quickly at Valérie. She, too, was
listening. Her head was turned toward the door, he could not see her
face.
He walked slowly across the room to her side by the desk.
“You do not think, mademoiselle,” he asked gravely, “that it is
possible the man is telling the truth, that he really cannot remember
anything that happened that night—and before?”
She shook her head.
“Every one knows he is guilty,” she said thoughtfully. “The
evidence proves it absolutely. Why, then, should one believe him? If
there was even a little doubt of his guilt, no matter how little, it
might be different, and one might wonder then; but as it is—no.”
“And it is not only you who say so”—he smiled, using her own
words—“it is all St. Marleau?”
“Yes, all St. Marleau—and every one else, including Monsieur le
Curé, even if he has sacrificed himself for the man,” she smiled in
return. Her brows puckered suddenly. “Sometimes I am afraid of
him,” she said nervously. “Yesterday I ran from the room. He was in
a fury.”
Raymond's face grew grave.
“Ah! You did not tell me that, mademoiselle,” he said soberly.
“And I am sorry I have told you now, if it is going to worry you,”
she said quickly. “You must not say anything to him. The next time I
went in he was so sorry that it was pitiful.”
In a fury—at times! Was it strange! Was it strange if one did not
sit unmoved to watch, fettered, bound, impotent, a horrible doom
creeping inexorably upon one! Was it strange if at times, all
recollection blotted out, conscious only that one was powerless to
avert that creeping terror, one should experience a paroxysm of fury
that rocked one to the very soul—and at times in anguish left one
like a helpless child! He had seen the man like that—many times in
the last few days. And he, too, had seen that same terror creep like
a dread thing out of the night upon himself to hover over him; and
he could see it now lurking there, ever present—but he, Raymond,
could fight!
The door of the rear room opened and closed; and Monsieur
Dupont's voice resounded from the hall.
“Where is Monsieur le Curé? Ho, Monsieur le Curé!”
Valérie looked toward him inquiringly.
“Shall I tell them you are here?” she asked.
Raymond nodded mechanically.
“Yes—if you will, please.”
He leaned against the desk, his hands gripping its edge behind his
back. What was it now that this Monsieur Dupont wanted? He was
never sure of Dupont. And this morning his brain was fagged, and
he did not want to cope with this infernal Monsieur Dupont! He
watched Valérie walk across the room, and disappear outside in the
hall.
“Monsieur le Curé is here,” he heard her say. “Will you walk in?”
And then, at some remark in the doctor's voice which he did not
catch: “No; he is not busy. I was just going to take his letters to the
postoffice. He heard Monsieur Dupont call.”
And then, as the two men stepped in through the doorway,
Raymond spoke quietly:
“Good morning, Monsieur Dupont! Good morning, Doctor Arnaud!”
“Hah! Monsieur le Curé!” Monsieur Dupont wagged his head
vigorously. “He is in a very pretty temper this morning, our friend in
there—eh? Yes, very pretty! You have noticed it? Yes, you have
noticed it. It would seem that he is beginning to realise at last that
his little tricks are going to do him no good!”
Raymond waved his hand toward chairs.
 “You will sit down?” he invited courteously.
“No”—Doctor Arnaud smiled, as he answered for them both. “No,
not this morning, Monsieur le Curé. We are returning at once to
Tournayville. I have an important case there, and Monsieur Dupont
has promised to have me back before noon.”
“Yes,” said Monsieur Dupont, “we stopped only to tell you”—
Monsieur Dupont jerked his hand in the direction of the rear room
—“that we will take him away to-morrow morning. Doctor Arnaud
says he will be quite able to go. We will see what the taste of a day
in jail will do for him before he goes into the dock—what? He is very
fortunate! Yes, very! There are not many who have only one day in
jail before they are tried! Yes! To-morrow morning! You look
surprised, Monsieur le Curé, that it should be so soon. Yes, you look
surprised!”
“On the contrary,” observed Raymond impassively, “when I saw
you drive up a few minutes ago, I thought you had come to take him
away at once.”
“But, not at all!” Monsieur Dupont indulged in a significant smile.
“No—not at all! I take not even that chance of cheating the court out
of his appearance—I do not wish to house him for months until the
next assizes. I take no chances on a relapse. He has been quite safe
here. Yes—quite! He will be quite safe for another twenty-four hours
in your excellent keeping, Monsieur le Curé—since he is still too
weak to run far enough to have it do him any good!”
“You pay a high compliment to my vigilance, Monsieur Dupont,”
said Raymond, with a faint smile.
“Hah!” cried Monsieur Dupont. “Hah!”—he began to chuckle. “Do
you hear that, Monsieur le Docteur Arnaud? I thought it had escaped
him! He has a sense of humour, our estimable curé! You see, do you
not? Yes, you see. Well, we will go now!” He pushed the doctor from
the room. “Au revoir Monsieur le Curé! It is understood then? To-
morrow morning! Au revoir—till to-morrow!”
Monsieur Dupont bowed, and whisked himself out of sight.
Raymond went to the door, closed it, and mechanically began to
pace up and down the room. He heard Monsieur Dupont and the
doctor clamber into the buckboard, and heard the buckboard drive
off. There was moisture upon his forehead again. He swept it away.
To-morrow morning! He had until to-morrow morning in which to act
—if he was to act at all. But the way! He could not see the way. It
was full of peril. The risk was too great to be overcome! He dared
not even approach that man in there with any plan. There was
something horribly sardonic in that! If he was to act, he must act
now, at once—there was only the afternoon and the night left.
“You are safe as it is,” whispered that inner voice insidiously. “The
man's condemnation by the law will dispose of the killing of
Théophile Blondin forever. It will be as a closed book. And then—
have you forgotten?—there is your own plan for getting away after a
little while. It cannot fail, that plan. Besides, they will not sentence
the man to hang, they will be sure to see that his memory is really
gone; whereas they will surely hang you if you are caught—as you
will be, if you are fool enough to attempt the impossible now. What
did you ever get out of being quixotic? Do you remember that little
affair in Ton-Nugget Camp?”
“My God, what shall I do?” Raymond cried out aloud. “If—if only I
could see the way!”
“But you can't!” sneered the voice viciously. “Haven't you tried
hard enough to satisfy even that remarkably tender conscience that
you seem to have picked up somewhere so suddenly! You—who
were going to kill the man with your own hands! Let well enough
alone!”
It was silent now in the rear room. Raymond halted in the centre
of the floor and listened. There were no footsteps; no sound of voice
—only silence. He laughed a little harshly. What was the man doing?
Planning his own escape! Again Raymond laughed in bitter mirth.
God speed to the man in any such plans—only the man, as Monsieur
Dupont had most sagaciously suggested, would not get very far
alone. But still it would be humorous, would it not, if the man should
succeed alone, where he, Raymond, had utterly failed so far to work
out any plan that would accomplish the same end! There was the
open window to begin with, the man had been told now probably
that he was to be taken away to-morrow morning, and—why was
there such absolute stillness from that other room? The partitions
were very thin, and—Raymond, as mechanically as he had set to
pacing up and down the room, turned to the door, passed out into
the hall, and walked softly along to the door of the rear room. He
listened there again. There was still silence. He opened the door,
stepped across the threshold—and a strange white look crept into
his face, and he stood still.
Upon the floor at the bedside knelt Henri Mentone, and at the
opening of the door the man did not look up. There was no fury
now; it was the child, helpless in despair and grief. His hands were
outflung across the coverlet, his head was buried in his arms—and
there was no movement, save only a convulsive tremor that shook
the thin shoulders. And there was no sound.
And the whiteness deepened in Raymond's face—and, as he
looked, suddenly the scene was blurred before his eyes.
And then Raymond stepped back into the hall, and closed the door
again, and on Raymond's lips was a queer, twisted smile.
“To-morrow morning, I think you said, Monsieur Dupont,” he
whispered. “Well, to-morrow morning, Monsieur Dupont—he will be
gone.”
 CHAPTER XIII—THE CONFEDERATE

T
HERE had been a caller, there had been parish matters, there
had been endless things through endless hours which he had
been unable to avoid—except in mind. He had attended to
them subconsciously, as it were; his mind had never for an instant
left Henri Mentone. And it was beginning to take form now, a plan
whereby he might effect the other's escape.
Sitting at his desk, he looked at his watch as he heard Valérie and
her mother go upstairs. It was a quarter past three. Later on in the
afternoon, in another hour or thereabouts Madame Lafleur would
take Henri Mentone for a few steps here and there about the green,
or sit with him for a little fresh air on the porch of the presbytère.
Raymond smiled ironically. As jailor he had delegated the task to
Madame Lafleur—since, as he had told both Valérie and her mother
at the noonday meal, he was going out to make pastoral visits that
afternoon. Meanwhile—he had just looked into Henri Mentone's
room—the man was lying on his bed asleep. If he worked quickly
now—while Valérie and her mother were upstairs, and the man was
lying on his bed!
He picked up a pen, and drew a piece of paper toward him.
Everything hinged on his being able to procure a confederate. He,
the curé of St. Marleau, must procure a confederate by some means,
and naturally without the confederate knowing that Monsieur le Curé
was doing so—and, almost as essential, a confederate who had no
love for Monsieur le Curé! It was not a very simple matter! That was
the problem with which he had racked his brains for the last three
days. Not that the minor details were lacking in difficulties either; he,
as the curé, must not appear even remotely in the plan; he, as the
curé, dared not even suggest escape to Henri Mentone—but he
could overcome all that if only he could secure a confederate. That
was the point upon which everything depended.
 His pen poised in his hand, he stared across the room. Yes, he
saw it now—a gambler's chance. But the time was short now, short
enough to make him welcome any chance. He would go to Mother
Blondin's. He might find a man there such as he sought, one of
those who already had offended the law by frequenting the dissolute
old hag's illicit still. He could ask, of course, who these men were
without exciting any suspicion, and if luck failed him that afternoon
he would do so, and it would be like a shot still left in his locker; but
if, in his rôle of curé, he could actually trap one of them drinking
there, and incense the man, even fight with him, it would make
success almost certain. Yes, yes—he could see it all now—clearly—
afterwards, when it grew dark, he would go to the man in a far
different rôle from that of a curé, and the man would be at his
disposal. Yes, if he could trap one of them there—but before
anything else Henri Mentone must be prepared for the attempt.
Raymond began to write slowly, in a tentative sort of way, upon
the paper before him. Henri Mentone, remembering nothing of the
events of that night, must be left in no doubt as to the genuineness
and good faith of the note, or of the vital necessity of acting upon its
instructions. At the expiration of a few minutes, Raymond read over
what he had written. He scored out a word here and there; and
then, on another sheet of paper, in a scrawling, illiterate hand, he
wrote out a slangy, ungrammatical version of the original draft. He
read it again now:
“The memory game won't go, Henri. They've got you cold, but
they don't know there was two of us in it at the old woman's that
night, so keep up your nerve, for I ain't for laying down on a pal. I
got it fixed for a getaway for you to-night. Keep the back window
open, and be ready at any time after dark—see? Leave-the rest to
me. If that mealy-mouthed priest gets in the road, so much the
worse for him. I'll take care of him so he won't be any trouble to any
one except a doctor, and mabbe not much to a doctor—get me? I'd
have been back sooner, only I had to beat it for you know where to
get the necessary coin. Here's some to keep you going in case we
have to separate in a hurry to-night.——Pierre.”
 Raymond nodded to himself. Henri Mentone might not relish the
suggestion of any violence offered to the “mealy-mouthed priest,” for
he had come to look upon Father François Aubert as his only friend,
and, except in his fits of fury, to cling dependently upon him; but
then there would be no violence offered to Father François Aubert,
and the suggestion supplied a final touch of authenticity to the note,
since Henri Mentone would realise that escape was impossible unless
in some way the curé could be got out of the road.
Raymond destroyed the original draft, and took out his
pocketbook. He smiled curiously, as he examined its contents. It was
the gold of the Yukon, the gold of Ton-Nugget Camp, that he had
changed into banknotes of large denominations. He selected two
fifty-dollar bills. It was not enough to carry the man far, or to take
care of the man until he was on his feet, nor were fifty-dollar bills
the most convenient denomination for a man under the present
circumstances; but that was not their purpose—they would act as a
guarantee of one “Pierre” and “Pierre's” plan, and to-night he would
give the man more without stint, and supplement it with some small
bills from his roll of “petty cash.” He folded the money in the note,
found a small piece of string in one of the drawers of the desk,
stood up, took his hat, tiptoed softly across the room, out into the
hall, and from the hall to the front porch.
Here, he stood quietly for a moment, looking about him; and then,
satisfied that he was unobserved, that neither Valérie nor her
mother had noticed his exit, he walked quickly around to the back of
the house—and paused again, this time beneath the open window of
Henri Mentone's room. Here, too, but even more sharply now, he
looked about him—then stooped ana picked up a small stone. He
tied the note around this, and, crouched low by the window, called
softly: “Henri! Henri!”
He heard a rustle, the creak of the bed, as though the man,
startled and suddenly roused, were jerking himself up into an
upright position.
“It is Pierre!” Raymond called again. “Courage, mon vieux! Have
no fear! All is arranged for tonight. But do not come to the window—
we must be careful. Here—voici!”—he tossed the note in over the
sill. “Until dark—tu comprends, Henri? I will be back then. Be ready!”
He heard the man cry out in a low voice, and the creak of the bed
again, and the man's step on the floor—and, stooping low, Raymond
darted around the corner of the house.
A moment later he was standing again in the hallway of the
presbytère.
“Oh, Madame Lafleur!” he called up the stairs. “It is only to tell
you that I am going out now.”
“Yes, Monsieur le Curé—yes. Very well, Monsieur le Curé,” she
answered.
Raymond closed the front door behind him, and, walking sedately
across the green and past the church, gained the road. It was
Mother Blondin's now, but he would not go by the station road—
further along the village street, where the houses thinned out and
were scattered more apart, he could climb up the little hill without
being seen, and by walking through the woods would come out on
the path whose existence had once already done him such excellent
service. And the path, as an approach to Mother Blondin's this
afternoon, offered certain very important strategical advantages.
But now for the moment he was in the heart of the village, and
from the doorways and garden patches of the little squat, curved-
roof, whitewashed houses of rough-squared logs that flanked the
road on either side, voices called out to him cheerily as he walked
along. He answered them—all of them. He was even conscious, in
spite of the worry of his mind, of a curious and not altogether
unwelcome wonder. They were simple folk, these people, big-
hearted and kindly, free and open-handed with the little they had,
and they appeared to have grown fond of him in the few days he
had been in St. Marleau, to look up to him, to trust him, to have
faith in him, and to accept him as a friend, offering a frank
friendship in return.
His hands were clasped behind his back as he walked along, and
suddenly his fingers laced tightly over one another. The pleasurable
wonder of it was gone. He was playing well this rôle of saint! He was
a gambler—Three-Ace Artie of Ton-Nugget Camp; a gambler—too
unclean even for the Yukon. But he was no hypocrite! He would
have liked to have torn these saintly trappings from his body,
wrenched off his soutane and hurled it in the faces of these people,
and bade them keep their friendship and their trust—tell them that
he asked for nothing that they gave because they believed him other
than he was. He was no hypocrite—he was a man fighting
desperately for that for which every one had a right to fight, for
which instinct bade even an insect fight—his life! He did not despise
this proffered friendship, the smile of eye and lip, the ring of genuine
sincerity in the voices that called to him—but they were not his, they
were not meant for Three-Ace Artie, they were not meant for
Raymond Chapelle. Somehow—it was a grotesque thought—he
envied himself in the rôle of curé for these things. But they were not
his. It was strange even that he, in whose life there had been
naught but riot and ruin, should still be able to simulate so well the
better things, to carry through, not the rôle of priest, that was a
matter of ritual, a matter of keeping his head and his nerve, but the
far kindlier and intimate rôle of father to the parish! Yes, it was very
strange, and——
“Bon jour, Monsieur le Curé!”
Raymond halted. It was Madame Bouchard, the carpenter's wife.
With a sort of long-handled wooden paddle, she was removing huge
loaves of bread from the queer-looking outdoor oven which, though
built of a mixture of stone and brick, resembled very much, through
being rounded over at the top, an exaggerated beehive. A few yards
further in from the edge of the road Bouchard himself was at work
upon a boat in front of his shop. Above the shop was the living
quarters of the family, and here, on a narrow veranda, peering over,
a half dozen scantily clad and very small children clung to the
railings.
Raymond sniffed the air luxuriously.
“Tiens, Madame Bouchard!” he cried. “Your husband is to be
envied! The smell of the bread is enough to make one hungry!”
 The carpenter laid down his tools, and looked up, laughing.
“Salut, Monsieur le Curé!” he called.
“If Monsieur le Curé would like one”—Madame Bouchard's cheeks
had grown a little rosy—“I—I will send one to the presbytère for
him.”
Raymond had eaten of St. Marleau bread before. The taste was
sour, and it required little short of a deftly wielded axe to make any
impression upon the crust.
“You are too good, too generous, Madame Bouchard,” he said,
shaking his forefinger at her chidingly. “And yet”—he smiled broadly
—“if there is enough to spare, there is nothing I know of that would
delight me more.”
“Of course, she can spare it!” declared the carpenter heartily,
coming forward. “Stanislaus will carry you two presently. And, tiens,
Monsieur le Curé, you like to row a boat—eh?”
Raymond, on the point of shaking his head, checked himself. A
boat! One of these days—soon, if this devil's trap would only open a
little—there was his own escape to be managed. He had planned
that carefully... a boating accident... the boat recovered... the curé's
body swept out somewhere in those twenty-five miles of river
breadth that stretched away before him now, and from there—who
could doubt it!—to the sea.
“Yes,” he said; “I am very fond of it, but as yet I have not found
time.”
“Good!” exclaimed the carpenter. “Well, in two or three days it will
be finished, the best boat in St. Marleau—and Monsieur le Curé will
be welcome to it as much as he likes. It is a nice row to the islands
out there—three miles—to gather the sea-gull eggs—and the islands
themselves are very pretty. It is a great place for a picnic, Monsieur
le Curé.”
“Excellent!” said Raymond enthusiastically. “That is exactly what I
shall do.” He clapped the carpenter playfully upon the shoulder. “So
—eh, Monsieur Bouchard,—you will lose no time in finishing the
boat!” He turned to Madame Bouchard. “Au revoir, madame—and
very many thanks to you. I shall think of you at supper to-night, I
promise you!” He waved his hand to the children on the veranda,
and once more started along the road.
Madame Bouchard's voice, speaking to her husband, reached him.
The words were not intended for his ears, and he did not catch them
all. It was something about—“the good, young Father Aubert.”
A wan smile crept to Raymond's lips. For the moment at least, he
was in a softened, chastened mood. “The good, young Father
Aubert”—well, let it be so! They would never know, these people of
St. Marleau. Somehow, he was relieved at that. He did not want
them to know. Somehow, he, too, wanted for himself just what they
would have—a memory—the memory of a good, young Father
Aubert.
At a bend in the road, where the road edged in against the slope
of the hill, hiding him from view, Raymond clambered up the short
ascent. In a clump of small cedars at the top, he paused and looked
back. The great sweep of river, widening into the Gulf of St.
Lawrence, with no breath of air to stir its surface, shimmered like a
mirror under the afternoon sun. A big liner, outward bound, and
perhaps ten miles from shore, seemed as though it were painted
there. To the right, close in, was the little group of islands, with
bare, rounded, rocky peaks, to which the carpenter had referred.
About him, from distant fields, came the occasional voice of a man
calling to his horses, the faint whir of a reaper, and a sort of
pervading, drowsy murmur of insect life. Below him, nestled along
the winding road, were the little whitewashed houses, quiet, secure,
tranquil, they seemed to lie there; and high above them all, as
though to typify the scene, to set its seal upon it, from the steeple of
the church there gleamed in the sunlight a golden cross, the symbol
of peace—such as he wore upon his breast!
With a quick intake of his breath, a snarl smothered in a low,
confused cry, as he glanced involuntarily downward at his crucifix,
he gathered up the skirts of his soutane, and, as though to vent his
emotion in physical exertion, began to force his way savagely
through the bushes and undergrowth.
 He had other things to do than waste time in toying with visionary
sentiment! There was one detail in that scene of peace he had not
seen—that man in the rear room of the presbytère who was going to
trial for the murder of Théophile Blondin, because he was decked
out in the clothes of one Raymond Chapelle, alias Henri Mentone. It
would be well perhaps for Raymond Chapelle to remember that, and
to remember nothing else for the remainder of the afternoon!
He went on through the woods, heading as nearly as he could
judge in a direction that would bring him out at the rear of the
tavern. And now he laughed shortly to himself. Peace! There would
be a peace that would linger long in somebody's memory at Mother
Blondin's this afternoon, if only luck were with him! He was on a
priestly mission—to console, bring comfort to the old hag for the loss
of her son—and, quite incidentally, to precipitate a fight with any of
the loungers who might be burying their noses in Mother Blondin's
home-made whiskey-blanc! He laughed out again. St. Marleau would
talk of that, too, and applaud the righteousness of the good, young
Father Au^ bert—but he would attain the object he sought. He, the
good, young Father Aubert, the man with a rope around his neck,
whose hands were against everyman's, had too many friends in St.
Marleau—he needed an enemy now! It was the one thing that would
make the night's work sure.
He reached the edge of the wood to find himself even nearer the
tavern than he had expected—and to find, too, that he would not
have to lie long in wait for a visitor to Mother Blondin's. There was
one there already. So far then, he could have asked for no better
luck. He caught the sound of voices—the old hag's, high-pitched and
querulous; a man's, rough and domineering. Looking cautiously
through the fringe of trees that still sheltered him, Raymond
discovered that he was separated from Mother Blondin's back door
by a matter of but a few yards of clearing. The door was open, and
a man, heavy-built, in a red-checkered shirt, a wide-brimmed hat of
coarse straw, was forcing his way past the shrivelled old woman. As
the man turned his head sideways, Raymond caught a glimpse of
the other's face. It was not a pleasant face. The eyes were black,
narrow and shifty under a low brow; and a three days' growth of
black stubble on his jaws added to his exceedingly dirty and
unkempt appearance.
Mother Blondin's voice rose furiously.
“You will pay first!” she screamed. “I know you too well, Jacques
Bourget! Do you understand? The money! You will pay me first!”
“Or otherwise you will tell the police, eh?” the man guffawed
contemptuously. He pushed his way inside the house, and pushed a
table that stood in the centre of the room roughly back against the
wall. “You shut your mouth!” he jeered at her—and, stooping down,
lifted up a trap door in the floor. “Now trot along quick for some
glasses, so you can keep count of all we both drink!”
“You are a thief, a robber, a crapule, a—” she burst into a stream
of blasphemous invective. Her wrinkled face grew livid with
ungovernable rage. She shook a bony fist at him. “I will show you
what you will get for this! You think I am alone—eh? You think I am
an old woman that you can rob as you like—eh? You think my
whisky is for your guzzling throat without pay—eh? Well, I will show
you, you——”
The man made a threatening movement toward her, and she
retreated back out of Raymond's sight—evidently into an inner room,
for her voice, as virago-like as ever, was muffled now.
“Bring me a glass, and waste no time about it!” the man called
after her. “And if you do not hold your tongue, something worse will
happen to you than the loss of a drop out of your bottle!”
The man turned, and descended to the cellar through the
trapdoor.
“Yes,” said Raymond softly to himself. “Yes, I think Monsieur
Jacques Bourget is the man I came to find.”
He stepped out from the trees, walked noiselessly across to the
house, and, reaching the doorway, remained standing quietly upon
the threshold. He could hear the man moving about in the cellar
below; from the inner room came Mother Blondin's incessant
mutterings, mingled with a savage rattling of crockery. Raymond
smiled ominously—and then Raymond's face grew stern with well-
simulated clerical disapproval.
The man's head, back turned, showed above the level of the floor.
Into the doorway from the inner room came Mother Blondin—and
halted there, her withered old jaw sagging downward in
dumfounded surprise until it displayed her almost toothless gums.
The man gained his feet, turned around—and, with a startled oath,
dropped the bottle he was carrying. It crashed to the floor, broke,
and the contents began to trickle back over the edge of the trapdoor.
“Sacristi!” shouted the man, his face flaring up into an angry red.
He thrust his head forward truculently from his shoulders, and glared
at Raymond. “Sacré nom de Dieu, it is the saintly priest!” he
sneered.
“My son,” said Raymond gravely, “do not blaspheme! And have
respect for the Church!”
“Bah!” snarled the man. “Do you think I care for you—or your
church!” He looked suddenly at Mother Blondin. “Hah!”—he jumped
across the room toward her. “So that is what you meant by not
being alone—eh? I did not understand! You would trick me, would
you! You would sell me out for the price of a drink—and—ha, ha—to
a priest! Well”—he had her now by the shoulders—“I will take a turn
at showing you what I will do! Eh—why did you not warn me he was
here?” He caught her head, and banged it brutally against the wall.
“Eh—why did——”
Raymond, too, was across the room. It was strange! Most strange!
He had intended to seek an occasion to quarrel. The occasion was
made for him. He had no longer any desire to quarrel—he was
possessed of an overwhelming desire to get his fingers around the
throat of this cur who banged that straggling, dishevelled gray hair
against the wall. He was not quite sure that it was himself who
spoke. No, of course, it was not! It was Monsieur le Curé—the good,
young Father Aubert. He was between them now, only Mother
Blondin had fallen to the floor.
 “My son,” he said placidly, “since you will not respect the Church
for one reason, I will teach you to respect it for another.” He pointed
to old Mother Blcndin, who, more terrified than hurt perhaps, was
getting to her knees, moaning and wringing her hands. “You have
heard, though I fear you may have forgotten it, of the Mosaic law.
An eye for an eye, my son. I intend to do to you exactly what you
have done to this woman.”
The man, drawn back, eyed him first in angry bewilderment, and
then with profound contempt.
“You'd better get out of here!” he said roughly.
“Presently—when I have thrown you out”—Raymond was calmly
tucking up the skirts of his soutane. “And”—the flat of his hand
landed with a stinging blow across the other's cheek—“you see that I
do not take even you off your guard.”
The man reeled back—and then, with a bull-like roar of rage, head
down, rushed at Raymond.
It was not Monsieur le Curé now—it was Raymond Chapelle, alias
Arthur Leroy, alias Three-Ace Artie, cold, contained, quick and lithe
as a panther, and with a panther's strength. A crash—a lightning
right whipped to the point of Bourget's jaw—and Bourget's head
jolted back quivering on his shoulders like a tuning fork. And like a
flash, before the other could recover, a left and right smashed full
again into Bourget's face.
With a scream, Mother Blondin crawled and scuttled into the
doorway of the inner room. The man, bellowing with mad dismay,
his hands outstretched, his fingers crooked to tear at Raymond's
flesh if they could but reach it, rushed again.
And now Raymond, wary of the other's strength and bulk, gave
ground; and now he side-stepped and swung, battering his blows
into Bourget's face; and now he ran craftily from the other. Chairs
and table crashed to the floor; their heels crunched in the splinters
of the broken bottle. The man's face began to bleed profusely from
both nose and a cut lip. They were not tactics that Bourget
understood. He clawed, he kept his head down, he rushed in blind
clumsiness—and always Raymond was just beyond his reach.
Again and again they circled the room, Bourget, big, lumbering,
awkward, futilely expending his strength, screaming oaths with
gasping breath. And again and again, springing aside as the man
charged blindly by, Raymond with a grim fury rained in his blows. It
was something like that other night—here in Mother Blon-din's. She
was shrieking again now from the doorway:
“Kill him! The misérable! Hah, Jacques Bourget, are you a jack-in-
the-box only to bob your head backward every time you are hit! I
did not bring the priest here! Sacré nom, you cannot blame me! I
had nothing to do with it! Sacré nom—sacré nom—sacré nom—kill
him!”
Kill who? Who did she mean—the man or himself? Raymond did
not know. She was just a blurred object of rage and tumbled hair
dancing in a frenzy up and down there in the doorway. He ran again.
Bourget, like a stunned fool, was covering his face with his arms as
he dashed forward. Ah, yes, Bourget was trying to crush him back
into the corner there, and—no!—the maniacal rush had faltered, the
man was swaying on his feet. And then Raymond, crouched to elude
the man, sprang instead at the other's throat, his hands closed like a
vise, and with the impact of his body both lurched back against the
wall by the rear doorway.
“My son,” panted Raymond, “you remember—an eye for an eye”—
he smashed the man's head back against the wall—and then,
gathering all his strength, flung the other from him out through the
open door.
The fight was out of the man. For a moment he lay sprawled on
the grass. Then he raised himself up, and got upon his knees. His
face was bruised and blood-stained almost beyond recognition. He
shook both fists at Raymond.
“By God, I'll get you for this!”—the man's voice was guttural with
unbridled passion. “I'll get you, you censer-swinging devil! I'll twist
your neck with the chain of your own crucifix! Damn you to the pit!
You're not through with me!”
“Go!” said Raymond sternly. “Go—and be glad that I have treated
you no worse!”
He shut the door in the man's face; and, turning abruptly, walked
across the floor to where Mother Blondin, quiet for the moment,
gaped at him from the threshold of the other room.
“He will not trouble you any more, Madame Blondin, I imagine,”
he said quietly. “See, it is over!” He smiled at her reassuringly—he
needed to know now only where the man lived. “I should be sorry to
think he was one of my parishioners. Where does he come from?”
“He is a farmer, and he lives in the house on the point a mile and
a quarter up the road”—the answer had come automatically; she
was listening, without looking at Raymond, to the threats and oaths
that Jacques Bourget, as he evidently moved away for his voice kept
growing fainter, still bawled from without. And then hate and sullen
viciousness was in her face again. Her hair had tumbled to her
shoulders and straggled over her forehead. She jabbed at it with
both hands, sweeping it from her eyes, and leered at him fiercely.
“You dirty spy!” she croaked hoarsely. “I know you—I know all of
you priests! You are all alike! Sneaks! Sneaks! Meddlers and sneaks!
But you'll get to hell some day—like the rest of us! Ha, ha—to hell!
You can't fool the devil! I know you. That's what you sneaked up
here for—to spy on me, to find something against me that the police
weren't sharp enough to find, so that you could get rid of me, get
me out of St. Marleau! I know! They've been trying that for a long
time!”
“To turn you over to the police,” said Raymond gently, “would
never save you from yourself. I came to talk to you a little about
your son—to see if in any way I could help you, or be of comfort to
you.”
She stared at him for an instant, wondering and perplexed; and
then the snarl was on her lips again.
“You lie! No priest comes here for that! I am an excommuniée.”
 “You are a woman in sorrow,” Raymond said simply.
She did not answer him—only drew back into the other room.
Raymond followed her. It was the room where he had fought that
night—with Théophile Blondin. His eyes swept it with a hurried
glance. There was the armoire from which Théophile Blondin had
snatched the revolver—and there was the spot on the floor where
the dead man had fallen. And here was the old hag with the
streaming hair, as it had streamed that night, who had run shrieking
into the storm that he had murdered her son. And the whole scene
began to live itself over again in his mind in minute detail. It seemed
to possess an unhealthy fascination that bade him linger, and at the
same time to fill him with an impulse to rush away from it. And the
impulse was the stronger; and, besides, it would be evening soon,
and there was that man in the presbytère, and there was much to
do, and he had his confederate now—one Jacques Bourget.
“I shall not stay now”—he smiled, as he turned to Mother Blondin,
and held out his hand. “You are upset over what has happened.
Another time. But you will remember, will you not, that I would like
to help you in any way I can?”
She reached out her hand mechanically to take his that was
extended to her, and suddenly, muttering, jerked it back—and
Raymond, appearing not to notice, smiled again, and, crossing the
room, went out through the front door.
He went slowly across the little patch of yard, and on along the
road in the direction of the village, and now his lips thinned in a grim
smile. Yes, St. Marleau would hear of this, his chivalrous protection
of Mother Blondin—and place another halo on his head! The devil's
sense of humour was of a brand all its own!
The more he twisted and squirmed and wriggled to get out of the
trap, desperate to the extent that he would hesitate at nothing, the
more he became—the good, young Father Aubert! Even that
dissolute old hag, whose hatred for the church and all pertaining to
it was the most dominant passion in her life, was not far from the
point where she would tolerate a priest—if the priest were the good,
young Father Aubert!
He reached the point where the road began to descend the hill,
and, pausing, looked back. Yes—even Mother Blondin, the
excommuniée! She was standing in the doorway, dirty, unkempt,
disreputable, and, shading her eyes with her hand, was gazing after
him. Yes, even she—whose son had been killed in a fight with him.
And Raymond, fumbling suddenly with his hat, lifted it to Mother
Blondin, and went on down the hill.
 CHAPTER XIV—THE HOUSE ON THE
POINT

I
T was late, a good half hour after the usual supper time, when
Raymond returned to the presbytère. He had done a very
strange thing. He had gone into the church, and sat there in the
silence and the quiet of the sacristy—and twilight had come
unnoticed. It was the quiet he had sought, respite for a mind that
had suddenly seemed nerve-racked to the breaking point as he had
come down the hill from Mother Blondin's. It had been dim, and still,
and cool, and restful in there—in the church. There was still Valerie,
still the priest who had not died, still his own peril and danger, and
still the hazard of the night before him; all that had not been
altered; all that still remained—but in a measure, strangely,
somehow, he was calmed. He was full of apologies now to Madame
Lafleur, as he sat down to supper.
“But it is nothing!” she said, placing a lamp upon the table. She
sat down herself; and added simply, as though, indeed, no reason
could be more valid: “I saw you go into the church, Monsieur le
Curé.”
“Yes,” said Raymond, his eyes now on Valerie's empty seat. “And
where is Mademoiselle Valerie? Taking our pauvre Mentone his
supper?”
“Oh, no!” she answered quickly. “I took him his supper myself a
little while ago—though I do not know whether he will eat it or not.
Valerie went over to her uncle's about halfpast five. She said
something about going for a drive.”
Raymond cut his slice of cold pork without comment. He was
conscious of a dismal sense of disappointment, a depression, a
falling of his spirits again. The room seemed cold and dead without
Valérie there, without her voice, without her smile. And then there
came a sense of pique, of irritation, unreasonable no doubt, but
there for all that. Why had she not included him in the drive? Fool!
Had he forgotten? He could not have gone if she had—he had other
things to do than drive that evening!
“Yes,” said Madame Lafleur, significantly reverting to her former
remark, as she handed him his tea, “yes, I do not know if the poor
fellow will eat anything or not.”
Raymond glanced at her quickly. What was the matter? Had
anything been discovered! And then his eyes were on his plate
again. Madame Lafleur's face, whatever her words might be
intended to convey, was genuinely sympathetic, nothing more.
“Not eat?” he repeated mildly. “And why not, Madame Lafleur?”
“I am sure I do not know,” she replied, a little anxiously. “I have
never seen him so excited. I thought it was because he was to be
taken away to-morrow morning. And so, when we went out this
afternoon, I tried to say something to him about his going away that
would cheer him up. And would you believe it, Monsieur le Curé, he
just stared at me, and then, as though I had said something droll,
he—fancy, Monsieur le Curé, from a man who was going to be tried
for his life—he laughed until I thought he would never stop. And
after that he would say nothing at all; and since he has come in he
has not been for an instant still. Do you not hear him, Monsieur le
Curé?”
Raymond heard very distinctly. His ears had caught the sounds
from the moment he had entered the presbytère. Up and down, up
and down, from that back room came the stumbling footfalls; then
silence for a moment, as though from exhaustion the man had sunk
down into a chair; and then the pacing to and fro again. Raymond's
lips tightened in understanding, as he bent his head over his plate.
Like himself, the man in there was waiting—for darkness!
“He is over-excited,” he said gravely. “And being still so weak, the
news that he is to go to-morrow, I am afraid, has been too much for
him. I have no doubt he was verging on hysteria when he laughed
at you like that, Madame Lafleur.”
 “I—I hope we shall not have any trouble with him,” said Madame
Lafleur nervously. “I mean that I hope he won't be taken sick again.
He did not look at the tray at all when I took it in; he kept his eyes
on me all the time, as though he were trying to read something in
my face.”
“Poor fellow!” murmured Raymond.
Madame Lafleur nodded her gray head in sympathetic assent.
“Ah, yes, Monsieur le Curé—the poor fellow!” she sighed. “It is a
terrible thing that he has done; but it is also terrible to think of what
he will have to face. Do you think it wrong, Monsieur le Curé, to wish
almost that he might escape?”
Escape! Curse it—what was the matter with Madame Lafleur to-
night? Or was it something the matter with himself?
“Not wrong, perhaps,” he said, smiling at her, “if you do not
connive at it.”
“Oh, but, Monsieur le Curé!” she exclaimed reprovingly. “What a
thing to say! But I would never do that! Still, it is all very sad, and I
am heartily glad that I am not to be a witness at the trial like you
and Valérie. And they say that Madame Blondin, and Monsieur
Labbée, the station agent, and a lot of the villagers are to go too.”
“Yes, I believe so,” Raymond nodded.
Madame Lafleur, in quaint consternation, suddenly changed the
subject.
“Oh, but I forgot to tell you!” she cried. “The bread! Madame
Bouchard sent you two loaves all fresh and hot. Do you like it?”
The bread! He had been conscious neither that the bread was
sour, nor that the crust was unmanageable. He became suddenly
aware that the morsel in his mouth was not at all like the baking of
Madame Lafleur.
“You are all too good to me here in St. Marleau,” he protested.
He checked her reply with a chiding forefinger, and a shake of his
head—and presently, the meal at an end, pushed back his chair, and
strolled to the window. He stood there for a moment looking out. It
was dark now—dark enough for his purpose.
“It is a beautiful night, Madame Lafleur,” he said enthusiastically. “I
am almost tempted to go out again for a little walk.”
“But, yes, Monsieur le Curé—why not!” Madame Lafleur was quite
anxious that he should go. Madame Lafleur was possessed of that
enviable disposition that was instantly responsive to the interests
and pleasures of others.
“Yes—why not!” smiled Raymond, patting her arm as he passed by
her on his way to the door. “Well, I believe I will.”
But outside in the hall he hesitated. Should he go first to the man
in the rear room? He had intended to do so before he went out—to
probe the other, as it were, to satisfy himself, perhaps more by the
man's acts and looks than by words, that Henri Mentone had
entered into the plans for the night. But he was satisfied of that
now. Madame Lafleur's conversation had left no doubt but that the
man's unusual restlessness and excitement were due to his being on
the qui vive of expectancy. No, there was no use, therefore, in going
to the man now, it would only be a waste of valuable time.
This decision taken, Raymond walked to the front door and down
the steps of the porch. Here he turned, and, choosing the opposite
side of the house from the kitchen and dining room, where he might
have been observed by Madame Lafleur, yet still moving deliberately
as though he were but sauntering idly toward the beach, made his
way around to the rear of the presbytère. It was quite dark. There
were stars, but no moon. Behind here, between the back of the
house and the shed, there was no possibility of his being seen. The
only light came from Henri Mentone's room, and the shades there
were drawn.
He opened the shed door silently, stepped inside, and closed the
door behind him. He struck a match, held it above his head—and
almost instantly extinguished it, as he located the sacristan's
overalls, and the old coat and hat.
 And now Raymond worked quickly. He stripped off his soutane,
drew on the overalls, turning the bottoms well up over his own
trousers, slipped on the coat, tucked the hat into one of the coat
pockets, and put on his soutane again. It was very simple—the
soutane hid everything. He smiled grimly, as he, stepped outside
again—the Monsieur le Curé who came out, was the Monsieur le
Curé who had gone in.
Raymond chose the beach. The village street meant that he would
be delayed by being forced to stop and talk with any one he might
meet, to say nothing of the possibility of having the ruinous, if well
meaning, companionship of some one foisted upon him—while, even
if seen, there would be nothing strange in the fact that the curé
should be taking an evening walk along the shore.
He started off at a brisk pace along the stretch of sand just behind
the presbytère. It was a mile and a quarter to the point—to Jacques
Bourget's. At the end of the sandy stretch Raymond went more
slowly—the shore line as a promenade left much to be desired—
there was a seemingly interminable ledge of slate rock over which
he had need to pick his way carefully. He negotiated this, and was
rewarded with another short sandy strip—but only to encounter the
slate rocks again with their ubiquitous little pools of water in the
hollows, which he must avoid warily.
Sometimes he slipped; once he fell. The grim smile was back on
his lips. There seemed to be something ironical even in these minor
difficulties that stood between him and the effecting of the other's
escape! There seemed to be a world of irony in the fact that he who
sought escape himself should plan another's rather than his own! It
was the devil's toils, that was all, the devil's damnable ingenuity, and
hell's incomparable sense of humour! He had either to desert the
man; or stand in the man's place himself, and dangle from the
gallows for his pains; or get the man away. Well, he had no desire to
dangle from the gallows—or to desert the man! He had chosen the
third and only course left open to him. If he got the man away, if the
man succeeded in making his escape, it would not only save the
man, but he, Raymond, would have nothing thereafter to fear—the
Curé of St. Marleau in due course would meet with his deplorable
and fatal accident! True, the man would always live in the shadow of
pursuit, a thing that he, Raymond, had been willing to accept for
himself only as a last resort, but there was no help for that in the
other's case now. He would give the man more money, plenty of it.
The man should be across the border and in the States early to-
morrow, then New York, and a steamer for South America. Yes, it
should unquestionably succeed. He had worked out all those details
while he was still racking his brain for a “Jacques Bourget,” and he
would give the man minute instructions at the last moment when he
gave him more money—that hundred dollars was only an evidence
of good faith and of the loyalty of one “Pierre.” The only disturbing
factor in the plan was the man's physical condition. The man was
still virtually an invalid—otherwise the police would have been
neither justified in so doing, nor for a moment have been willing to
leave him in the presbytère, as they had. Monsieur Dupont was no
fool, and it was perfectly true that the man had not the slightest
chance in the world of getting away—alone. But, aided as he,
Raymond, proposed to aid the other, the man surely would be able
to stand the strain of travelling, for a man could do much where his
life was at stake. Yes, after all, why worry on that score! It was only
the night and part of the next day. Then the man could rest quietly
at a certain address in New York, while waiting for his steamer. Yes,
unquestionably, the man, with his life in the balance, would be able
to manage that.
Raymond was still picking his way over the ledges, still slipping
and stumbling, and now, recovering from a fall that had brought him
to his knees, he gave his undivided attention to his immediate task.
It seemed a very long mile and a quarter, but at the expiration of
perhaps another twenty minutes he was at the end of it, and halted
to take note of his surroundings. He could just distinguish the village
road edging away on his left; while ahead of him, but a little to his
right, out on the wooded point, he caught the glimmer of a light
through the trees. That would be Jacques Bourget's house.
 He now looked cautiously about him. There was no other house in
sight. His eyes swept the road up and down as far as he could see—
there was no one, no sign of life. He listened—there was nothing,
save the distant lapping of the water far out, for the tide was low on
the mud flats.
A large rock close at hand suggested a landmark that could not be
mistaken. He stepped toward it, took off his soutane, and laid the
garment down beside the rock; he removed his clerical collar and his
clerical hat, and placed them on top of the soutane, taking care,
however, to cover the white collar with the hat—then, turning down
the trouser legs of the overalls, and turning up the collar of the
threadbare coat, he took the battered slouch hat from his pocket
and pulled it far down over his eyes.
“Behold,” said Raymond cynically, “behold Pierre—what is his other
name? Well, what does it matter? Pierre—Desforges. Desforges will
do as well as any—behold Pierre Desforges!”
He left the beach, went up the little rise of ground that brought
him amongst the trees, and made his way through the latter toward
the lighted window of the house. Arrived here, he once more looked
about him.
The house was isolated, far back from the road; and, in the
darkness and the shadows cast by the trees, would have been
scarcely discernible, save that it was whitewashed, and but for the
yellow glow diffused from the window. He approached the door
softly, and listened. A woman's voice, and then a man's, snarling
viciously, reached him. “... le sacré maudit curé!”
Raymond laughed low. Jacques Bourget and his wife appeared to
have an engrossing topic of conversation, if they had been at it since
afternoon! Also Jacques Bourget appeared to be of an unforgiving
nature!
There was no veranda, not even a step, the door was on a level
with the ground; and, from the little Raymond could see of the
house now that he was close beside it, it appeared to be as down-
at-the-heels and as shiftless as its proprietor. He leaned forward to
avail himself of the light from the window, and, taking out a roll of
bills, of smaller denominations than those which he carried in his
pocketbook, he counted out five ten-dollar notes.
Jacques Bourget from within was still in the midst of a
blasphemous tirade. Raymond rapped sharply on the door with his
knuckles. Bourget's voice ceased instantly, and there was silence for
a moment. Raymond rapped again—and then, as a chair leg
squeaked upon the floor, and there came the sound of a heavy tread
approaching the door, he drew quickly back into the shadows at one
side.
The door was flung open, and Bourget's face, battered and cut, an
eye black and swollen, his lip puffed out to twice its normal size,
peered out into the darkness.
“Who's there?” he called out gruffly.
“S-sh! Don't talk so loud!” Raymond cautioned in a guarded voice.
“Are you Jacques Bourget?”
The man, with a start, turned his face in the direction of
Raymond's voice. Mechanically he dropped his own voice.
“Mabbe I am, and mabbe I'm not,” he growled suspiciously. “What
do you want?”
“I want to talk to you if you are Jacques Bourget,” Raymond
answered. “And if you are Jacques Bourget I can put you in the way
of turning a few dollars tonight, to say nothing of another little
matter that will be to your liking.”
The man hesitated, then drew back a little in the doorway.
“Well, come in,” he invited. “There's no one but the old woman
here.”
“The old woman is one old woman too many,” Raymond said
roughly. “I'm not on exhibition. You come out here, and shut the
door. You've nothing to be afraid of—the only thing I have to do with
the police is to keep away from them, and that takes me all my
time.”
“I ain't worrying about the police,” said Bourget shrewdly.
 “Maybe not,” returned Raymond. “I didn't say you were. I said I
was. I've got a hundred dollars here that——”
A woman appeared suddenly in the doorway behind Bourget.
“What is it? Who is it, Jacques?” she shrilled out inquisitively.
Bourget, for answer, swore at her, pushed her back, and,
slamming the door behind him, stepped outside.
“Well, what is it? And who are you?” he demanded.
“My name is Desforges—Pierre Desforges,” said Raymond, his
voice still significantly low. “That doesn't mean anything to you—and
it doesn't matter. What I want you to do is to drive a man to the
second station from here to-night—St. Eustace is the name, isn't it?
—and you get a hundred dollars for the trip.”
“What do you mean?” Bourget's voice mingled incredulity and
avarice. “A hundred dollars for that, eh? Are you trying to make a
fool of me?”
Raymond held the bills up before the man's face. “Feel the money,
if you can't see it!” he suggested, with a short laugh. “That's what
talks.”
“Bon Dieu!” ejaculated Bourget. “Yes, it is so! Well, who am I to
drive? You? You are running away! Yes, Î understand! They are after
you—eh? I am to drive you, eh?”
“No,” said Raymond. He drew the man close to him in the
darkness, and placed his lips to Bourget's ear. “Henri Mentone.”
Bourget, startled, sprang back.
“What! Who!” he cried out loudly.
“I told you not to talk so loud!” snapped Raymond. “You heard
what I said.”
Bourget twisted his head furtively about.
“No, 'cré nom—no!” he said huskily. “It is too much risk! If one
were caught at that—eh? Bien non, merci!”
“There's no chance of your being caught”—Raymond's voice was
smooth again. “It is only nine miles to St. Eustace—you will be back
and in bed long before daylight. Who is to know anything about it?”
“Yes, and you!”—Bourget was still twisting his head about
furtively. “What do I know about you? What have you to do with
this?”
“I will tell you,” said Raymond, and into the velvet softness of his
voice there crept an ominous undertone; “and at the same time I
will tell you that you will be very wise to keep your mouth shut. You
understand? If I trust you, it is to make you trust me. Henri Mentone
is my pal. I was there the night Théophile Blondin was killed. But I
made my escape. I do not desert a pal, only I had no money. Well, I
have the money now, and I am back. And I am just in time—eh?
They say he is well enough to be taken away in the morning.”
“Mon Dieu, you were there at the killing!” muttered Bourget
hoarsely. “No—I do not like it! No—it is too much risk!” His voice
grew suddenly sharp with undisguised suspicion. “And why did you
come to me, eh? Why did you come to me? Who sent you here?”
“I came because Mentone must be driven to St. Eustace—because
he is not strong enough to walk,” said Raymond coolly. “And no one
sent me here. I heard of your fight this afternoon. The curé is telling
around the village that if he could not change the aspect of your
heart, there was no doubt as to the change in the aspect of your
face.”
“Sacré nom!” gritted Bourget furiously. “He said that! I will show
him! I am not through with him yet! But what has he to do with this
that you come here? Eh? I do not understand.”
“Simply,” said Raymond meaningly, “that Monsieur le Curé is the
one with whom we shall have to deal in getting Mentone away.”
“Hah!” exclaimed Bourget fiercely. “Yes—I am listening now!
Well?”
“He sits a great deal of the time in the room with Mentone,”
explained Raymond, with a callous laugh. “Very well. Mentone has
been warned. If this fool of a curé knows no better than to sit there
all night tonight, I will find some reason for calling him outside, and
in the darkness where he will recognise no one we shall know what
to do with him, and when we are through we will tie him and gag
him and throw him into the shed where he will not be found until
morning. On the other hand, if we are able to get Mentone away
without the curé knowing it, you will still not be without your
revenge. He is responsible for Mentone, and if Mentone gets away
through the curé's negligence, the curé will get into trouble with the
police.”
“I like the first plan better,” decided Bourget, with an ugly sneer.
“He talks of my face, does he! Nom de Dieu, he will not be able to
talk of his own! And a hundred dollars—eh? You said a hundred
dollars? Well, if there is no more risk than that in the rest of the
plan, sacré nom, you can count on Jacques Bourget”. . .
“There is no risk at all,” said Raymond. “And as to which plan—we
shall see. We shall have to be guided by the circumstances, eh? And
for the rest—listen! I will return by the beach, and watch the
presbytère. You give me time to get back, then harness your horse
and drive down there—drive past the presbytère. I will be listening,
and will hear you. Then after you have gone a little way beyond,
turn around and come back, and I will know that it is you. If you
drive in behind the church to where the people tie their horses at
mass on Sundays, you can wait there without being seen by any one
passing by on the road. I will come and let you know how things are
going. We may have to wait a while after that until everything is
quiet, but in that way we will be ready to act the minute it is safe to
do so.”
“All that is simple enough,” Bourget grunted in agreement. “And
then?”
“And then,” said Raymond, “we will get Mentone out through the
window of his room. There is a train that passes St. Eustace at ten
minutes after midnight—and that is all. The St. Eustace station, I
understand, is like the one here—far from the village, and with no
houses about. He can hide near the station until traintime; and,
without having shown yourself, you can drive back home and go to
bed. It is your wife only that you have to think of—she will say
nothing, eh?”
 “Baptême!” snorted Bourget contemptuously. “She has learned
before now when to keep her tongue where it belongs! And you?
You are coming, too?”
“Do you think I am a fool, Bourget?” inquired Raymond shortly.
“When they find Mentone is gone, they will know he must have had
an accomplice, for he could not get far alone. They will be looking
for two of us travelling together. I will go the other way. That makes
it safe for Mentone—and safe for me. I can walk to Tournayville
easily before daylight; and in that way we shall both give the police
the slip.”
“Diable!” grunted Bourget admiringly. “You have a head!”
“It is good enough to take care of us all in a little job like to-
night's,” returned Raymond, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Well, do
you understand everything? For if you do, there's no use wasting
any time.”
“Yes—I have it all!” Bourget's voice grew vicious again. “That sacré
maudit curé! Yes, I understand.”
Raymond thrust the banknotes he had been holding into Bourget's
hand.
“Here are fifty dollars to bind the bargain,” he said crisply. “You
get the other fifty at the church. If you don't get them, all you've got
to do is drive off and leave Mentone in the lurch. That's fair, isn't it?”
Bourget shuffled back to the edge of the lighted window, counted
the money, and shoved it into his pocket.
“Bon Dieu!” Bourget's puffed lip twisted into a satisfied grin. “I do
not mind telling you, my Pierre Desforges, that it is long since I have
seen so much.”
“Well, the other fifty is just as good,” said Raymond in grim
pleasantry. He stepped back and away from the house. “At the
church then, Bourget—in, say, three-quarters of an hour.”
“I will be there,” Bourget answered. “Have no fear—I will be
there!”
 “All right!” Raymond called back—and a moment later gained the
beach again.
At the rock, he once more put on his soutane; and, running now
where the sandy stretches gave him opportunity, scrambling as
rapidly as he could over the ledges of slate rock, he headed back for
the presbytère.
It was as good as done! There was a freeness to his spirits now—
a weight and an oppression lifted from him. Henri Mentone would
stand in no prisoner's dock the day after to-morrow to answer for
the murder of Théophile Blondin! And it was very simple—now that
Bourget's aid had been enlisted. He smiled ironically as he went
along. It would not even be necessary to pommel Monsieur le Curé
into a state of insensibility! Madame Lafleur retired very early—by
nine o'clock at the latest—as did Valérie. As soon as he heard
Bourget drive up to the church, he would go to the man to allay any
impatience, and as evidence that the plan was working well. He
would return then to the presbytère—it was a matter only of slipping
on and off his soutane to appear as Father Aubert to Madame
Lafleur and Valérie, and as Pierre Desforges to Jacques Bourget. And
the moment Madame Lafleur and Valérie were in bed, he would
extinguish the light in the front room as proof that Monsieur le Curé,
too, had retired, run around to the back of the house, get Henri
Mentone out of the window, and hand him over to Bourget,
explaining that everything had worked even more smoothly than he
had hoped for, that all were in bed, and that there was no chance of
the escape being discovered until morning. Bourget, it was true, was
very likely to be disappointed in the measure of the revenge wrecked
upon the curé, but Bourget's feelings in the matter, since Bourget
then would have no choice but to drive Henri Mentone to St.
Eustace, were of little account.
And as far as Henri Mentone was concerned, it was very simple
too. The man would have ample time and opportunity to get well out
of reach. He, Raymond, would take care that the man's
disappearance was not discovered any earlier than need be in the
morning! It would then be a perfectly natural supposition—a