I
guessed that Puck's public revelations were vengeance upon her for
unanswered questions.
"He called himself nothing at all," the girl replied.
"Ah," said the Prefet, "then he _was_ the Wandering Jew! Let me see--I
think you are planning to go to Gerbeviller and Luneville and Vitrimont
to-morrow. Most likely you'll meet him at one of those places. And when
you hear his story, you'll understand why he haunts the neighbourhood
like a beneficent spirit."
"But must we wait to hear the story? Please tell us now," I pleaded.
"I'm so curious!"
This was true. I burned with curiosity. Also, fatty degeneration of the
heart prompted me to annoy Dierdre O'Farrell. To spite _me_, she had
refused to talk of the doctor. I was determined to hear all about him to
spite _her_. You see to what a low level I have fallen, dear Padre!
The Prefet said that if we would go home with him and have tea in the
garden (German aeroplanes permitting) he would tell us the tale of the
Wandering Jew. We all accepted, save Dierdre, who began to stammer an
excuse; but a look from her brother nipped it in the bud. He certainly
has an influence over the girl, against which she struggles only at her
strongest. To-day she looked pale and weak, and he could do what he
liked with her.
He liked to make her take tea at the Prefet's, doubtless because he'd
have felt bound to escort the invalid to her room, had she insisted on
going there!
The story of the Wandering Jew would be a strange one, anywhere and
anyhow.
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