Free Thunder On The Right by Mary Stewart Page A

hidden. Jennifer, peering in the dim light, ran a disappointed finger down the joint of the frame. It encountered something, a paper or fragment of soft wood, sticking out between frame and backing. Pressing her head closer to the wall, and exerting her eyes in the gloom, she could just see what looked like the graying edge of a paper whose corner was escaping from its hiding place. She plucked at it carefully with her nails, and presently, with some excitement, drew it out.
    Just what she expected to see she had no idea; if she had stopped to think, she would have known how remote were the chances of finding an identifying paper tucked into a frame at least three centuries younger than the canvas. But she carried the paper to the chancel steps, where the light was better, and smoothed it out with slightly unsteady fingers. It was yellowed and dirty, and tore a little along the crease as she unfolded it. It appeared to be a letter, or part of a letter, written in French:
    "—C'est alors après avoir regu l'assurance de notre ami mutuel que j'ai osé vous approcher. . .."
    With rapidly dwindling interest she read on:
    "—So it was with the assurance of this mutual friend that I approached you. I am relieved to hear that you are willing, and
    I suppose it inevitable in the circumstances that you should set your terms so high.
    This, then, finally:—I shall come as
    arranged on the night of the sixth September, and I will pay you three million francs, this being the sum agreed upon previously.
    I note your instructions about baggage. In the circumstances they are not exactly necessary.
    ISAAC LENORMAND
    That was all; a modern idiom, an unmistakably modern hand, a signature that meant nothing. Jennifer knitted her brows over it for a moment; should she attempt to restore it to its hiding place? Probably in any case, she thought, not strictly a "hiding place"—the letter had undoubtedly been pushed in merely to wedge the frame, which gaped a little at that point. It could hardly matter. But perhaps . .
    A movement, a slight sound from the dim aisle of the Lady chapel, set her heart unaccountably scudding. She thrust the already-forgotten scrap of paper into her pocket, and descended the chancel steps, annoyed that the hush and mystery of the chapel should, apparently, have brought back all the tremors she had been trying to put aside. She glanced into the Lady chapel and saw that what had alarmed her was only a girl in a blue cotton dress, who was kneeling at the edge of the little pool of light that bathed the Virgin's statue; it was one of the orphans, who had crept in quietly to pray while Jennifer had been in the chancel.
    She glanced curiously at the smaller altar, to see that here, too, the lavish hand had been at work, for the little statue was finely made of bronze and ivory, and tiny jewels winked on the hilt of the sword that pierced the Virgin's heart.
    Notre-Dame-de-Douleur . . . an odd choice, surely, for a children's chapel? Jennifer turned to hurry down the nave, chiding herself for having wasted so much time, but as she moved away, the kneeling girl crossed herself and stood up. It was Celeste.
    Jennifer, elated at the luck which had sent the girl across her path before the bursar had had a chance to see her, stopped at the back of the chapel and waited. Celeste genuflected deeply in front of the statue, then came swiftly down the aisle and turned toward the north door.

    She checked when she saw the other waiting there.
    "Ah, Celeste," said Jennifer, gently, "I was hoping to see you again."
    "But—but mademoiselle, I thought you had gone!"
    "No doubt. But I am still here, as you see. If you will be so good as to answer one or two questions------"
    The uneasiness was flickering again, unmistakable, in the lovely eyes. "I don't think—I must not------" began the girl nervously.
    Jennifer said, roundly, "Were you telling me the truth this afternoon, Celeste, when you said that Madame Lamartine had never once