‘My God!’ he said, ‘I’ll go after them and kill him. They tracked the fugitive to the Mint; but, like hounds at fault, they here lost all scent of their prey. "No, Sir Rowland," replied the attendant, "as you proposed to ride to Saint Albans to-night, I thought you might choose to see him yourself. All my plans have succeeded. Let me walk you to the door. He looked at her with a certain curiosity. 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.
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