" "I'll have no explanations whatever," replied the carpenter, disdainfully, "except before a magistrate. I was always told my mother died the day I was born. And―and he wanted to help you. Down under the incalculable selfishness of the penitent child there was the man's uneasy recollection of Judas. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious. They thought that he was dead at first, and they took him to the hospital. Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed—to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows.
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